


Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit

by Astro_L_Abe



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astro_L_Abe/pseuds/Astro_L_Abe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel lives in the 21st century and is a combat consultant and choreographer, specializing in hand to hand combat and guerilla tactics. She is also familiar with modern first aid as a result of her career, and she attends graduate night class for a degree in historical literature, specializing in war and post-war letters. She accidently travels back in time and ends up trying to stop a rogue radical who intends to foil the Revolutionary War and restore his family’s tainted name—Arnold. There she meets Major Benjamin Tallmadge and helps his Culper spy ring stop the agent, falling in love with the Major as they secure America’s future. Rachel knows that he is destined to be with Mary Floyd, but can history be rewritten?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

               “I tell you no tales—it was the Adversary that ambushed us. The devil be dwelling in those woods. I saw the fiend with my own eyes,” the bloodied lieutenant besought his interrogators. He sat in the middle of the prisoner of war’s holding tent, his red coat torn and soiled and his hands tied at the wrist. “He wore all black and road a black horse—probably covered in soot from Hell fire. His face wasn’t human. It had these wide, glass eye sockets and a hose where a nose and mouth should be. His breath was raspy as if it was a furnace, and he spoke no words.” The lieutenant tried to recreate the unearthly features he described with his hands. “He had two bayonet blades that he mowed us down with like a scythe. He killed over a dozen men! We shot him several times. I heard the bullets make contact, but they didn’t faze him—he just kept slaying us, one by one, until there were none.”

                Major Benjamin Tallmadge and his best friend and fellow soldier, Lieutenant Caleb Brewster, listened prudently, watching the young lad’s facial expressions and body movements to see if they told a different story. But in all aspects, he appeared to be earnest.

                “There’s you—he left you. Why is that?” Ben asked.

                “He always leaves one. Only one. One to live and tell.” The lieutenant broke down into sobs. “You rebels are the devil’s own if he is defending you now. You’re damned, the whole bloody lot of you!”

                Ben and Caleb eyed each other and left the tent with a guard posted outside.

                “That’s the third story we’ve heard about this Adversary character in the past week,” Caleb said in a lowered voice so others in the camp couldn’t overhear. “I like the bastard. He seems to be providing the extra butt flap we’ve been needing lately.”

                They rounded a corner, heading towards Mr. Sackett’s headquarters.

                “He has been doing us favors. But who is he? And why does he hide behind a mask—from us, too?” Ben blew into his hands to warm them.

                “To scare the devil into the lobsters, that’s why,” Caleb said. They turned as they heard the cries of the lieutenant rise behind them. He was shouting something about Jesus saving him. “It’s working, too. First time I’ve ever seen redcoats run to us begging for our protection.”

                “All the same, have him gagged. We want the British spooked, not our men.”

                Caleb gave him a quick solute and jogged back to the prisoner’s tent. Ben continued on to Mr. Sackett, the intelligence part of his intelligence operation.

                Ben entered the appropriated town house. Mr. Sackett’s back was to him, bent over a table in deep conversation with someone who Ben did not recognize—a woman in a plane grey dress with an white apron and a green scarf tied around her head.

                Ben cleared his throat, and Mr. Sackett and the woman turned. Ben was wary at first for not knowing who this new person was, but he was startled when she met his gaze. She had wavy auburn hair tucked underneath her scarf, fiery emerald eyes, and porcelain skin that was nearly translucent. Her eyes were large and wide but discerning, and her facial features were a strange mixture of hawk and lamb—equal parts predator and prey—but all orchestrated into quite a lovely face that looked like it could play both sides, a talent that could be used to their benefit or to their bane. _Everyone looks like a potential menace these days_ , Ben thought as he forced himself to tear his eyes from her.    

                “Ah, Major, just the person I was looking for,” he motioned for Ben to the map on the table. “I have it on good information that the British suffered a blow recently. It was a _parvola sed fortis_ blow, yes?”

                Ben eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Small but powerful, indeed. I should have been delivering that news to you though. How did you hear about that already?” He watched as the woman picked up a laundry basket and walk past him.

                “Oh, Rachel, forgive me. Allow me to introduce you to the Major,” Mr. Sackett said absently. “Major Benjamin Tallmadge, this is Rachel Hazard—technically my second cousin once removed, but I’m referring to her as my niece for brevity’s sake…and new assistant. Recently orphaned from the war, very tragic, etcetera.”

                Rachel looked at the Major and quickly curtsied as an afterthought. Ben bowed. “Miss Hazard, I’m at your service.”

                Rachel looked at Mr. Sackett then back at Ben, curtsying again, “Charmed, Major.” She ducked out of the door, leaving a trail of rose water aroma in her wake. Ben breathed it in deeply before turning back to Mr. Sackett and the matter at hand.

*             *             *             *             *

                Rachel’s cheeks felt warm, and she was annoyed at that. She was also annoyed at the corset that clamped down on her rib cage. And to top the list off, she was saddle sore.

                She hauled the laundry basket to an unpopulated bank of the nearby river. Scanning the area and seeing no one nearby, she pulled out the black shirt and pants from the bottom of the basket. She scrubbed them with urgency against a large rock, ringed them out, and tossed them back into the basket, piling the other miscellaneous items on top. She had already beat the black frock late last night, ridding it of the road mud that clung to its hem. Once it was dry, she would hide her “costume” back in one of Mr. Sackett’s chests where he said they would be safe from detection.

                Wincing, she stood up. The corset was rubbing the bruises where the bullets had hit. “Better than bullet holes,” she kept reminding herself. She wisely wore a bullet proof police vest on her excursions to avoid injury and “fain immortality” as Mr. Sackett had put it. He had been most impressed with her modern contraptions—including an automatic handgun with over a dozen fully loaded clips, grenades, smoke bombs, and other knickknacks that Malone had packed. She felt fortunate that Malone—the greedy treacherous terrorist—had led her right to Mr. Sackett once they made it through the time shaft. Who else would believe that she was from the 21st century? Who else would readily understand the exigency of her tracking down and stopping Malone from foiling the Revolutionary War—and subsequently altering history, as she only knew it?

                Her first feat had been saving Mr. Sackett, Malone’s first target. Malone had tried to convince Sackett to join his “cause” on promise of payment and lies that the war was doomed anyway, but when that did not work, Malone had pulled a gun with a silencer on him, which is when Rachel had burst into the room, deftly arraigning the gun from his hands. She had hesitated, not wanting to kill Malone who was her only ticket back home, so he managed to escape, leaving Rachel to explain to Mr. Sackett who she was, who Malone was, and why she was wearing pants. It had been a long conversation that night. After she provided “proof” through predictions about outcomes and intel that only a student of history could know and modern technology, Sackett began to believe her.

Her next feat would be finding Malone and tricking or forcing him back into their time—back to 2014, back to her parents and brothers, and her life—where she didn’t have to wear a bloody corset.


	2. Chapter 2

               “How exactly am I supposed to be the head of the Culper spy ring and not know who your new ‘informant’ is?” Ben asked, running his fingers through his hair and growing more exasperated.

                “Trust me?” Mr. Sackett said, giving an apologetic expression. “All I can say is that this new person has our best interest at heart, but also requires anonymity.”

                Caleb entered with a smile across his face that immediately disappeared when he saw Ben’s and Mr. Sackett’s demeanors.

                “Should I be getting some ale?”

                Mr. Sackett nodded, but Ben shook his head.

                “Then should I inquiry—“

                “Mr. Sackett has hired the devil to do our work,” Ben said, sitting in a chair and rubbing his temples.

                “Does he have a decent work ethic?”

                Ben gave Caleb a be-damned look fit for the devil.

                “I assume that ye all are talking about this Adversary legend that’s cropped up in more than one lobster’s story?” Caleb asked.

                Both Ben and Mr. Sackett nodded, but the former did so grudgingly while the latter did so eagerly.

                “The Adversary had information—vital information—that had to be acted on immediately. You two were away concerning another matter; thus, I had to make an executive decision. And I am completely confident that it was the correct decision. The Adversary had definitive proof and unparalleled knowledge,” Mr. Sackett said as he cleaned his spectacles and replaced them on his nose. “In addition to this information, the Adversary insisted on performing the task—absolutely refused the offer of aid.”

                “And that doesn’t sound alarm bells? Insisting on gallivanting about on his own? Would having one of our own accompanying him really be that much of an inconvenience? And why would that be?” Ben asked, standing again and pacing about, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots.

                Mr. Sackett walked in front of Ben and kindly but firmly held his shoulders. “It’s a complicated and rather delicate situation, but know this—the Adversary’s aims will not interfere with yours. They are not only in tangent with the rebellion, but without them, the rebellion may very well be in peril of floundering.”

                “Do you have the gift of prophecy now?” Caleb asked, chuckling.

                Mr. Sackett looked as grave as a “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God” sermon. “We have been given a prophetic gift of sorts, and we would be foolish to not use it.”

*             *             *             *             *

                Rachel returned with the laundry. She was staying in a small backroom of Mr. Sackett’s headquarters, only big enough for a cot and a wooden chair. A window gave her another entrance/exit if doors weren’t the best option. It was probably servant’s domicile, but she was grateful for the privacy. Mr. Sackett had been too nervous to allow her to stay with the women following the camp, saying it wasn’t safe or “honorable” since Rachel was a maiden. She thought it was cute that he was being chivalrous, and a bit refreshing to have someone concerned about her virtue.

                She hung the Adversary’s laundry inside a closet; then hung a sheet in front of the drying laundry to serve as a false wall, locking it behind her. If anyone picked the broom closet’s lock and poked their nose inside, they wouldn’t see the Adversary’s suit brandished in all its glory.

               Rachel pulled out a locked box beneath her cot and unlocked it with a key around her neck. Inside she had placed her few worldly possessions—her cell phone and wallet. The weaponry she had commandeered from Malone’s stash was hidden in one of Mr. Sackett’s chests. She had turned off her cell since it was useless in the 18th century, but also because she wanted to save the battery. It had pictures of her family and life that she wanted to be able to see whenever she needed motivation for why she was here.

               She pulled out her wallet and flipped through the now meaningless cards—her university ID where she had been going to night graduate classes for a degree in historical literature, specialty in war related correspondence; her work passes to various reenactment and period movie sets where she served as combat consultant and choreographer; her Texas state driver’s license (she had never bothered officially switching residency when she moved to New England to work on the historic battlefields); and a folded up copy of one of her favorite letters on which she had been writing a research paper—from Benjamin Tallmadge to his wife, Mary.

               It was one of the shortest letters in their correspondence collection, but she had felt it was also the most cryptic. The professors said that Rachel was reading into it too much, but she couldn’t stop the nagging feeling that there was novels’ worth of narratives in-between those lines. She unfolded the letter, smoothing out the creases.

**December----**

**Mary, my lamb,**

**You rescued me— an angelic guardian who devilishly defends our posterity. You continue to sustain me. I am never more aware of your presence when you are absent from my side.**

**I know we have only been married for a few months—in secret, nonetheless. A non-traditional situation to say the least. It is unfair when I wish to declare it aloud, but at the same time, it feels intimate—our own secret to share, and there are so few of those to which only we are privy.**

**God-willing, I will be reunited with you shortly. Erstwhile, I will count you as my confidant, my Allie, my lover, my all—**

**Yours always,**

**Ben**

                The diction was poetic but odd. If she didn’t know any better, she would say it was coded, but it didn’t sound like the other official spy codes that she’d encountered when studying epistolary war documents; but rather, this code sounded like something only two people who shared an intimate history would understand.

                _Perhaps while I’m here, I can work out some of these mysteries_ , she thought. _Then when I return to my time, I’ll have first-hand information to offer. . .although that will take some explaining._ She folded the letter back up, locked the box, and hung the key back around her neck.

                She needed a nap, since she had been out late and would be out late again tonight. She knew the devil never sleeps, but she was merely mortal flesh pretending to be something more. Lying on her cot, she closed her eyes.

               The last thought that swam through her mind before she surrendered to slumber was Major Tallmadge’s blue-grey eyes on her—how they looked so hopeful yet so world-weary at the same time. There is something about a man in a uniform, as they say, and the blue continental suit did conform to his broad shoulders and taut limbs, but there was something else there, a gravity pulling Rachel towards him. She knew he was a man of integrity and passion, as his letters and memoirs and others’ accounts of him exemplified, but meeting the man himself instead of just reading about him gave sinew and flesh to words. He was no longer description in a textbook, but a tangible, warm body that emanated an attractive force that Rachel found unnerving. She wasn’t used to being moved except by her own volition, but she thought as she drifted off that _Mary is a lucky, lucky girl._


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel was running through the woods. Cannon fire echoed all around her. Explosions of splinters and body parts smattered across her face.

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” a voice said from above the clatter and turmoil. “Something wicked this way comes.”

Mr. Sackett’s voice broke through a labyrinthine dream. Rachel woke to him gently shaking her shoulder.

“My dear, it is time. I’ll go fetch your articles.” Mr. Sackett stepped out.

Rachel rose and changed into her now dried clothes, donning the bullet proof vest, the black shirt, pants, boots, and gloves. Mr. Sackett tapped at the door, asking permission to enter.

“I’m descent,” Rachel said.

“Not too descent, I hope. You need to find the missing pieces to Malone’s message, which may include indecently ending another troupe or two.” Mr. Sackett handed her the World War II gasmask that she had also stolen from Malone’s stash, the black colonial tricorn hat, and long black frock. She finished adorning herself until she was no longer herself, but the Adversary. She stashed several throwing knives in her belt and a grenade for dire situations. She also carried a handgun in her saddle’s satchel, but it was only a last line of defense since bullet supply was limited. Her first and preferred method was two bayonet blades that she wielded like dual katana swords and kept strapped across her back.

Mr. Sackett looked outside then motioned that it was clear. By mask of night, she walked out the backdoor and through the woods where her horse, which she had affectionately named Swarthy Dastard, was waiting for her. Mr. Sackett had gone to some trouble procuring a black mare that was fifteen hands high, conveniently as well as intimidatingly matching Rachel’s outfit. Together they made quite the impression.

Rachel patted Swarthy Dastard’s mane. “Ready for another romp, girl?” Rachel whispered in her ear as mounted in one fluid movement. “No pressure, but we do have life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness riding in the balance.” Rachel squeezed her thighs, sending Swarthy Dastard into a swift canter through the woods. When they reached the road, both horse and rider looked like an inseparable contour, swimming through the shadows of foliage, galloping to a certain confrontation and possible calamity.  

*             *             *             *             *

“Do you really think that Rachel Hazard woman you described is Sackett’s relative?” Caleb asked, sitting on a stool in Ben’s tent while Ben sat at his desk shuffling through a stack of papers by candlelight.

“Of course not. A woman who looks like that couldn’t be related to him,” Ben said as he distractedly re-read a letter.

“Sounds like you’ve taken a shining to her.”

“I merely noticed, as any good spy leader would, that she has a lovely…personage. Although I think she’s also playing at being the meek helpmeet for her counterfeit uncle. Something in her eyes—she’s alert and poised, prepared, but whether she’s hiding or hunting, I don’t know.” Ben stared at the blank canvas in front of him before shaking his head slightly and refocusing.

Caleb watched as Ben pieced together the puzzle message that Mr. Sackett had given to him to look over. “So Malone is who is sending these love notes to our favorite aliases—Anderson, Gustavus, and Wobomagonda?”

“According to Sackett and his new ‘source.’ Malone is who the Adversary is pursuing for some ‘noble and constructive reason,’ which we are forbidden to question,” Ben said as thumbed through the three letter intercepted and translated so far.

“What can you decipher from them?” Caleb pulled a flask from the inside of his coat.

“Malone is promising several notable people, including our friends Anderson and Wobomagonda, who we know to be Renegade Rogers, outlandish outcomes—something about bestowing the British the gift of moon blight and ambushing an ensnarement that the Culper spy ring has prepared, but we don’t have any traps set as of now.” Ben sat back in his chair, perplexed.

“Maybe he’s bluffing. If we don’t have an ambush in the works, maybe he’s selling false information?” Caleb swirled his flask around a few times as if he was wondering whether another shot was required or not.

“But he’s not requesting funds. He’s proctoring a different kind of deal, but I don’t know what exactly. And moon blight? Sounds like a nocturnal pox. I need more messages to discover his means and desired ends.” Ben leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“Well then, since that topic is on hiatus—let’s ponder another mystery: if Rachel isn’t Sackett’s niece or second cousin or what-have-you, who is she?”

“I don’t know that either,” Ben said, folding the papers and putting them back in the satchel.

“You are head of intelligence—isn’t it your duty to get to know her better?” Caleb leaned forward, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He stroked his beard, waiting for Ben to answer.

“In case you’ve forgotten, friend, we’re in the midst of a war.”

“There’s a time for war, a time for love—as your father preaches.“

“No time for love.” Ben shook his head resolutely, but a twinge of longing and regret crackled somewhere deep in his chest like the papers he sifted through.

“Not even a quick tryst in a haystack?”

Ben gave him warning look.

“Right, right. I forgot. You’re a reverend’s son, piously waiting for your soulmate.”

“I’m a soldier at the moment, Caleb. Besides, it would be dangerous for a woman to be associated with me right now.” Ben sat in thought for a moment before adding, “And Miss Hazard could be a dangerous woman with whom to associate.” Ben breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to streamline his thoughts. His chest harbored a whirlwind of emotions—which was unlike him. He was typically focused, disciplined, and for some reason, that was difficult to do when a certain lovely face with knowing eyes kept sweeping through his thoughts like a highwayman by night. _Rachel—who are you? And what secrets do you harbor?_

Lieutenant Braggart stepped inside the tent and saluted Ben. Ben nodded back in recognition. Braggart was a gangly lad, awkward in conduct and speech, and Ben thought, most would not pay him a second mind as anything but pathetic and harmless, which made Ben cautious.

“Begging your pardon, Major, but I’ve come across information, sir—information that is of a pertinent nature, sir. That is, information that may interest someone, sir, but I wasn’t certain who to relay said pertinent information to, sir, which is why I’ve come to you. . . sir.”

Caleb squinted and puckered his lips as trying to keep a searing observation from whistling out of his mouth.

“Proceed, Lieutenant,” Ben said, giving a subtle shake of his finger towards Caleb.

 “Sir, I had the inopportune privilege of overhearing a conversation in the local pub last night—a conversation containing the information aforementioned—”

 “Of a pertinent nature, yes,” Ben nodded, waiting for him to continue, but Braggart stood there silent.

“Well, get on with it,” Caleb bursts out. “What did ye hear?”

Braggart gave Caleb a side-eye glance without turning his lanky neck.

“Please do continue,” Ben said more diplomatically.

“The man I overheard claimed to be a hired messenger with a letter for John Anderson, sir,” Braggart said.

Caleb perked up, but Ben was more serene, not betraying too much interest.

“The messenger was bragging about the ungodly amount of money he was being paid to deliver this message. What caught my attention was that the messenger was given specific instructions to avoid certain roads where the Adversary has been said to haunt. He was told instead to take trails by the water, sir.”

“Did he say when he was riding?” Ben asked, his tone a distilled calm.

“Tonight, sir. Was I right in coming to you?” Braggart shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes, Lieutenant. Please come to me again if you happen overhear any other odd conversation,” Ben said.

Braggart gave a goofy grin that spread across his face like a jack-o-lantern. He then bowed and exited.

“Part weasel, part eel—that one is,” Caleb said after Braggart left.

“In more than just physical form,” Ben added, peeking out of the tent flaps and watching Braggart’s stroppy stride as he walked away.

Caleb looked over Ben’s shoulder. “Although I shouldn’t be too quick to judge—if he’s several inches longer all over his body, I’m sure the ladies appreciate it.”

“Mhm,” Ben replied absently.

“Think he’s too lucky to have ‘happened to overhear’ that bit at the tavern?”

“Yes, but nevertheless, we must follow a lead with the words: John Anderson and Adversary in them.”

“I’ll saddle up some horses and try to sober up.” Caleb plopped his hat on his head and dipped out of the tent.

Ben picked up the satchel with Malone’s messages and headed to Mr. Sackett’s headquarters to return them, satisfied that he had a mission to focus on tonight and no time to allow his mind to wander adrift on traces of rose water scent.


	4. Chapter 4

Fall spiced up the air with the musk of ripening crops and early sunsets. The leaves rustled, becoming more brittle with the approach of crisp winds. It was the beginning of September 1780, a few weeks until Major André was supposed to slink up the Hudson River in his sloop-of-war, _Vulture_ , to confer with General Arnold and is captured. If certain events in the near future did not go as they should, Major André may not get caught, and General Arnold’s plot to hand over West Point may not be discovered by the Culper spy ring. The U. S. could very well lose the war, altering history as she knew it. She felt like she was playing both sides of a chess board with missing pieces.  

A fog drifted from the bay into the surrounding forest. Rachel and Swarthy Dastard stood amidst the canopy of pine, birch, and spruce trees, waiting for the envoy who carried Malone’s latest letter. Its destination was Benedict Arnold, a. k. a. Gustavus, and she was there to make sure that it never reached the traitor. Rachel was particularly skeptical about this herald though. Mr. Sackett had easily found out about it—as if the Malone had sent out an invitation.

She wiped condensation off of her gasmask’s lenses. It was a pain to wear, blocking her peripheral vision, but its effect could not be understated—it lanced redcoat’s hearts with terror whenever they spied her charging towards them; thus, she endured its less-than practical features for the sake of theatrics. _But highly calculated theatrics_ , she reminded herself.

Swarthy Dastard raked the ground with her hoof, letting out a low bluster of protest. Rachel patted her side, sympathizing with her restlessness. The messenger should have been here by now. Rachel had stationed herself between the main road and a coastal trail, prepared to interlope either, but the only thoroughfare had been deer, an owl, and a drunken farmer.

Sloshing and grunts erupted over a small ridge baring her site of the water. Rachel hesitated, not wanting to get distracted by a local brawl and miss the messenger, but then she heard a familiar voice.

“Caleb, watch out!”

It was Major Tallmadge. Rachel squeezed Swarthy Dastard’s sides, launching the mare into a healthy gallop towards the cries of distress.

“Behind you, Ben!” Caleb shouted.

She slowed her horse to a trot and slid off, landing softly. She ran up to a thick trunk and peeked around the side. Caleb was in midair, ensnared in netting. He was sawing at the thick rope with a knife while below him Ben was unconscious and being dragged towards the nearby water by two large lads wearing scarves across their faces.  

“Ben, now would be a good time to wake up!” Caleb shouted from his perch as one cord snapped and he began viciously carving at another.

Ben came to just as the two lads submerged him beneath the water, one pushing him down by the shoulders, the other kneeling on his chest and wrestling with Ben’s flailing arms. Rachel dashed down the ridge, unsheathing the two bayonets strapped to her back. She cut through the fog at a graceful sprint, overcoat tails and swirls of mist trailing in her wake.

The ruffian pinning Ben’s shoulders down beneath the dark waters saw her first. “The Adversary!”

His partner turned, grabbing a pistol from his belt and firing in one movement. The ball bullet hit center mass, knocking the Adversary backwards. The fog reconvened around the Adversary’s still body. Malone’s hired help watched pensively for any movement in the mist, momentarily letting up on Ben. Breaching the surface, Ben gasped for air, and the two assassins promptly reapplied their weight, punching into the surf to subdue the Major.

Another rope snapped, sending Caleb plummeting back to earth with a thud. He groaned but persevered, attempting to untangle himself from the net. But he paused as he saw the Adversary’s dark figure rise from the fog, a bayonet in each hand.

The goon at Ben’s head shouted in disbelief, stuttering orders to the other one. “Fire—fire again! He’s risen!”

The other brute got off of Ben whose splashes had subsided. He ran to shore, attempting to reload, but the Adversary reached the shore line at the same time, swiping one bayonet blade across his throat, opening his windpipe and jugular vein. He dropped his pistol and grabbed his throat. The blood leaked out between his fingers as he fell back into the water, gurgling and twitching.

The other henchman abandoned Ben who turned face down and floated on the surface. He sloshed through the knee-deep water, away from the Adversary and right into Caleb’s fist. Caleb gave him several firm punches to the face. The Adversary tossed a bayonet to him, and Caleb plunged it into the goon’s left eye socket.

The Adversary waded out to Ben, turning him over and dragging him in to land. Caleb ran over to help. On shore, Caleb beat Ben’s back, trying to get him to respond and cough up water, but he remained limp. “Come on, Benny Boy, you’re not going to leave this world like this—not like a waterlogged otter—wake up now!”

The Adversary bent over Ben, listening to his chest. Rachel then pulled off her gasmask and tricorn hat, bending over to listen again.

“What the devil?” Caleb fell backwards onto his bum.

She cut through Ben’s cravat with her bayonet, and tilted his head back, wrapping her lips over his mouth and blowing her lung’s full capacity into him. She saw his chest inflate out of the corner of her eye. She overlaid her hands on his chest, pumping and counting in her head, then repeating the exercise several times.

Caleb watched, puzzled and despaired, wiping stray tears off his cheek. Ben suddenly coughed and Caleb let out an exclamation of relief and disbelief. Rachel turned Ben on his side so he could spit out the bay water. He lay there retching for several minutes. Rachel patted his back, partially for comfort and partially to encourage the water expulsion. Her first aid training was coming in handy in the 18th century.

She motioned for Caleb to take over while she walked back into the woods where the assassins’ horses were tied up. Their saddle bags contained a note addressed to “Whomever it May Concern.” She broke the seal and opened the letter.

**Adversary,**

**If you happen upon this note, you’ve most likely foiled another one of my attempts to kill members of the Culper spy ring. I will not deny you your victories—however short-lived—so congratulations, my dear.**

**Major Tallmadge and/or Lieutenant Caleb Brewster,**

**If you happen upon this note, you’ve most likely managed to live another day. But don’t worry. I’ll hire better assassins next time.**

**Yours truly,**

**M**

**P. S. This was a trap. My actual message was not on their persons but is in fact being relayed to the appropriate party. Sorry for the confusion!**

**P.S. I am a good sport, so I’ll provide a clue (consider this a reward for your tenacity—I do like to toss a dog a bone whenever able):**

**Listen my children and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.**

**He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."**

 

“Cheeky,” Rachel muttered to herself. She walked back, note in hand, to Caleb and Ben.

Ben sat propped up against a tree, still hacking occasionally, while Caleb manically whispered to him, wilding gesturing with his hands. Rachel stopped in front of them, holding out the letter.

“It’s addressed to all of us,” she said.

“Addressed to Miss Hazard or to the Adversary?” Ben asked, voice horse.

“To my official title of course.”

Ben eyed her before reading the letter.

“Malone fancies himself a poet?” Ben asked handing the letter over to Caleb.

“Not a very good one—the date is wrong and what about William Dawes and Samuel Prescott? They don’t get a verse or two?” Caleb asked.

“Maybe their names are more difficult to match with rhyming words?” Rachel offered.

“The inaccuracies must be code for something,” Ben said while he pealed the wet remains of his cravat off of his neck.

“It’s a famous poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, so it’s a clue, not code,” Rachel said pacing back and forth.

Ben and Caleb looked at each other; then at her.

“I’ve never heard of him, although Yale boy here might have.” Caleb looked expectantly at Ben who shook his head.

“You two will never hear of him,” Rachel said, but then immediately regretted it. She didn’t have time for long explanations. “Never mind. The point is that Malone’s brazen hubris—giving us this poetic hint—means that there’s still a chance to intercept the message if we can figure out how he plans on transferring it since it’s obviously not via them.” She motioned to the two lifeless bodies floating in the water amidst clouds of crimson.

Ben re-read the poem. “There’s a church nearby, just across the harbor.”

“But what could he possibly signal with just a few lanterns? The message would have to be simple.”

Rachel tapped her chin a few times in thought. Then tapped it again, more slowly. “Not necessarily. Do you have you spy glass on you, Major?”

They clambered to a perch, and Ben extended his spy glass and spotted the church bell tower across the inlet. He saw light from presumably a lantern appear then disappear at different intervals. He swung the glass in the other direction and saw another lantern light on the opposite shore signaling similarly.

“It’s not a simple ‘one if by land, two if by sea’,” Ben said, passing the spy glass to Rachel who peered through it.

“It’s Morse code,” she said after watching it for a minute.

“That’s not one I’m familiar with,” Ben said.

“It’s not,” she paused to choose her words carefully, “popular yet.”

“By the time any of us could reach the messengers, they’d be gone,” Caleb said, frustrated.

“I remember enough Morse code from my scout days to translate, so we’ll at least know what they’re saying,” she said digging through her coat pocket for a ballpoint pen she still possessed. She rolled up her sleeve, baring her arm while giving directions. “When there’s a short flicker, say dot, when there’s a long flicker, say dash.”

Ben relayed the dots and dashes until the lanterns looked like they were extinguished.

She read aloud by the moonlight, “Tell Anderson that M will contact Wobomagonda at loyalist lounge for next set of instructions. Last set of instructions will follow shortly after. Moon blight in route. If you stick to the plan, all will be well.”

“I think I preferred his poetry.” Caleb crossed his arms to keep from reaching for his blade. He was still antsy whenever Rachel made a sudden move.

Ben took her wrist and angled her forearm to look at her notes. His grip was firm but gentle. “Do you think that was Malone on the West shore?”

Rachel looked over at the now dark shoreline to the right. “Possibly.”

“Any idea who was at the church tower?” Ben still held her wrist in his hand, his thumb reflexively stroking the message and subsequently the tender flesh at the wrist.

Caleb was examining the ballpoint pen.

“My best guess is ‘Gustavus.’ My dear Uncle Sackett,” she said with more than a hint of irony, “mentioned that he may have discovered where the Loyalist Lounge is located. Perhaps we should reassemble at spy central and discuss further?”

“Ye are just going to ride back through the woods—in pants and a devil mask—to camp? Just like that?” Caleb said with wonderment as he nonchalantly stashed the ballpoint pen in his coat pocket.

“Well, I don’t intend to ride back without pants on and my identity concealed, if that’s what you mean,” Rachel said.

Caleb raised his hands in surrender and began walking back to the horses. Rachel was about to follow when Ben touched her elbow, stalling her.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand why you’re gallivanting about rescuing distressed patriots, but I wanted to offer my gratitude. Caleb said you. . .brought me back to life?”

She smiled, noting the conflict of awe and disquiet in his face. “For the record, I’m not Beelzebub—it’s a cover. And I didn’t drag your soul on its way to heaven back down to earth. I merely revived you.”

“I’m in your debt then, Miss Hazard,” he said, bowing.

“No, Major, keeping you and members of your spy ring alive is why I’m here, so it’s not a favor that you must repay—it’s my duty that you must allow.”

Rachel put on her gasmask and tricorn hat and melted into the woods, leaving Ben with a tangled gut. She knew about the Culper spy ring. How trustworthy could someone be who rampaged around the woods as the Father of Lies? And why did her presence make his pulse quicken—was it vigilance or something else?


	5. Chapter 5

The candle burned low, wax dripping and drying in a pile at its base like a unfurled dragoon tassel. Ben and Caleb stood around the table that Mr. Sackett sat at, each eyeing the other whilst processing the night’s exposé.

Rachel walked into the room, re-costumed in her dress and tying an apron around her waist.

“Some niece you have,” Caleb said, watching her suspiciously.

Mr. Sackett shrugged his soldiers and sipped his tankard, seemingly unconcerned.

“Albeit, her alighting on the scene tonight was—“

“Fortuitous?” Ben offered.

“Right out of some backwards fairytale, more like it,” Caleb snorted.

Rachel rolled her eyes and sat by the fire to warm her hands. “You’re welcome.”

“How so?” Mr. Sackett asked. always curious but in a business casual tone way.

“In the fairytales I learned when I was a wee lad, the prince wore pants and the prince was the one to awaken the princess with a kiss—not the other way around.”

“It wasn’t a kiss,” Rachel said, chuckling.

“New world, new fairytales,” Ben said, glancing over at Rachel’s back, noticing the strong back and arm muscles flexing beneath her bodice as she put another log on the fire. “In times like these, role reassignment is sometimes necessary.”

“She took advantage of you while you were out.”

“She reanimated him with the superior knowledge I told you she possessed,” Mr. Sackett said.

“It’s not fairy magic, it’s called CPR—it’s simply keeping the blood oxygenated and pumping through the heart.” She stoked the fire until the embers flamed.

Caleb shuttered, took a gulp of Mr. Sackett’s ale before Mr. Sackett snatched it away from him.

“Only weak men are terrified at the notion that a woman can do more than darn socks,” Rachel said over her shoulder.

“Instead of beginning a battle here,” Ben interrupted, “I propose we wage war on the real enemy.”

“We must divine who Anderson and Gustavus are and what they’re plan is,” Mr. Sackett sighed.

“Not to mention ‘moon blight’—and what Rogers wants with it,” Caleb leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

Rachel stood. “You all don’t know about West Point plot yet?”

They shook their heads. She walked over the table. “I hate to be the harbinger of spoilers, but for the sake of brevity and since I’m not entirely sure what Malone has altered thus far: Anderson is General André and his man, Gustavus, is General Benedict Arnold.”

Ben felt his center sink, his inner-light snuffed in a tar pit of bitter betrayal. He looked down and realized he was clenching his fist.

“Where’d ye get your information? General Arnold is a decorated war hero, a man’s man—ye know, the strapping sort that soldier boys slaver over. Why would you suspect him?” Caleb inquired, doubting.  

“I don’t suspect it, I know it,” Rachel said.

“But how?”

“It’s a best if the expository nature of that explanation is whittled down to a simple: she knows. We must not waste time, but act now,” Mr. Sackett motioned for Caleb to follow him, requiring manual labor of some sort.

Caleb’s boots clomped across the floor, and he muttered on the way out. Ben got up and walked over to the fire, glaring into it.  

“I’m sorry, Major. I know this information must come as a disappointment to you,” Rachel said, breaking the silence.

He shook his head, shrugging off the ire that broiled in his chest. “It just confirmed my reservations. I truly did not wish my instincts to be accurate this time.”

She nodded.

“I understand requiring secrecy—believe me I do—but I must insist you at least somewhat explain how you’ve gathered certain intelligence—especially about General Arnold and Major André.”

“Do you like riddles, Major?”

Ben cocked to his head, his eyebrows faintly knotting.

“I’m not being coy. I think it’s better if you come to your question’s conclusion by your own reasoning rather than having me directly answer—you’ll be more willing to except reality that way.”

Ben gestured for her to continue, taking one step closer to her and resting one hand on the hilt of his saber.

“I know the war ends in 1783, that we win as well as other details I’ve shared with you already, but I do not have the gift of visions, I’m not a soothsayer or a witch—yet still I know what will happen. How is it that I speak of these events in past tense?”

His eyes widened ever so slightly, relaxing his brows and forehead. He was not a melodramatic man, but a subtle and careful one. This detail wouldn’t have been noticeable to most observers, but Rachel had made a careful study of his face.

“You’re a member of the angelic host?”

Rachel covered her mouth to hide the smile. She had no intention of mocking the Major.

“Major, if you weren’t so sincere, I would say you were a shameless flatterer, but you give me far more credit than I deserve.”

“But you have pre-ordained knowledge, the ability to restore life, guardian instincts—“

“My mission is to keep your soul firmly planted on this plain, not guide it to heaven.”

“Not an ethereal being then? You’re certain? But Caleb said you were shot but rose?”

“I wear a thick bullet proof jacket under my getup.” She couldn’t suppress a smile. “I assure you, Major, I’m a mere mortal.”

“There’s nothing ‘mere’ about you,” he muttered as he looked away for a moment, pondering. He then returned his gaze, looking at Rachel as with fresh eyes. “You speak of the future as if it’s already occurred,” he said more to himself than her. “What year were you born?” he asked hesitantly, studying her reaction.

Rachel nodded once, indicating he had found the answer. “1990. Over two hundred after the United States declares its independence. Malone and I come to you from the year 2015.”

“How is that possible?”

She indicated that he should sit in the chair opposite her. “We have remarkable advancements in science, technology, and medicine in the future. But even those withstanding, time travel isn’t a common recreation by any means. Even when Malone claimed to be spearheading an operation that could feasibly time hop funded by dubious Russian benefactors, I thought it was a way for rich men with science-fiction fantasies to occupy themselves.”

“But it turned out to not be a fiction?”

“Malone hired me as his personal historical combat bodyguard. I played along. I believed the entire exercise was futile, but a descent paycheck nevertheless.”

“What happened?”

“The day we were to time travel, he drugged me, so what I remember of the journey is fuzzy at best. I do recall the team he had employed to build the time shaft generator were slumped over their desks and strewn across the lab’s floor before I blinked out. They drank the Champaign instead of the Kool Aid.” Ben didn’t respond to the allusion. “Sorry, future reference.” Rachel smoothed the front of her dress. “I came to in the swamp. My head was fuzzy and I thought at first I must be dreaming, but Malone waved some smelling salts under my nose and explained matter-of-factly the situation—I was to help him foil the Culper spy ring’s accomplishments while he gave the British some advantages. Then we would return to an altered future, one where his family name had been restored and had prominence. He seems to think tinkering with time is a simple thing.”

“What advantages does he intend to give to the British?”

“He intends to stop the Culper spy ring from warning Washington about Arnold delivering West Point to the British, and then there’s ‘moon blight,’ as he calls it. His melodramatic tendencies are getting on my nerves.”

“Witchcraft?”

“He’s packaging it as some sort of a preternatural weapon, but it can’t be. It must have a scientific basis, and therefore, must be diffusible.”  

Benjamin shook his head as he organized his thoughts. “Tinkering with time like a clock smith adjusting the cogs on clock wheels,” he muttered to himself mostly.

“Malone claimed he came once before on a ‘test trip’. He ended up starting the Great Fire of New York in 1776 to cover his tracks.”

“He started that inferno?”

“Yes, and that was by accident, so imagine the catastrophe he actually does intend.”

He was quiet for a moment. “After you’ve accomplished your aims, do you intend to return to your time?”

She nodded resolutely at first, but then saw something in his face—a silent request asking her to reconsider. “I’ve always loved this period in history—why I chose the career I did—but suffice to say, a woman’s role in these times is limited.”

“You manage to break the mold.”

Rachel glanced down at her hands, folded in her lap. She hadn’t noticed that she’d been fidgeting with her apron. She placed her hands on the table in front of her, to keep her from mindlessly fiddling her fingers.

“Where do you live?” Ben’s tone was softer, like he was slipping out of official mode into something more informal, more personal.

“I travel a lot, wherever the job requires me to go, but I’m mainly in New England now, going to night school and consulting for historical reenactments. I’m originally from Texas.”

“Texas?”

“It doesn’t become a state until 1845. But you probably don’t want to be bothered with the details,” Rachel began to rise.

He placed his hand on her hands. “Actually, I’d love to hear the details.”

She slowly sank back down. “They have nothing to do with the rebellion here and now—“

“But they’re about you, and that’s what I’m interested in presently.” She looked down at his hand which still rested on hers.

“Very well, Major.”

“It’s Benjamin, Rachel—if I may call you by your Christian name?”

“Benjamin,” she repeated, the sudden familiarity sounding strangely amorous coming out of her mouth. A slight smile creased the corners of his mouth. He let go of her hands, but his hand remained only a hair’s breadth away from hers, its warmth tugging at her knuckles, beckoning her fingers to stretch out and touch his.

They talked long into the night about the future and their pasts until the candle in between them burned low and the fire was nothing but glowing coals.    


	6. Chapter 6

“There’s a sour hop in in the hotch-pot,” Mr. Sackett whispered to Rachel as they walked through camp.

“I beg your pardon?” Rachel asked.

“A locust in the honey? A snitch in our midst?”

“Ah, I get your meaning.” She glanced at the passing faces, ruddy and scarred with eyes that were a combination of bored and voracious. The leak could be any one of them, she thought.

“Why do you think that?”

“André has a middle man hereabouts seeking to discover the spy ring leader.” Mr. Sackett puffed on his pipe, nodding to a General as he rode past. “Major Tallmadge believes he knows who it is, even thinks that it’s the same canary that Malone used, and that the little song bird isn’t bright enough to deduce that Malone’s target and André’s target are one in the same, so I’m not too worried. But as a general principle, trust no one, save myself, Major Tallmadge, and Lieutenant Brewster in a pinch.”

“Understood.”

“I’m telling you this because I’ll be away this evening and need you to hold my mail. I’m expecting a very special delivery.”

“And where will you be about?”

“Procuring the whereabouts of this ‘loyalist lounge.’ And having a pint or two on the spy ring’s tab. Lieutenant Brewster!”

Caleb had just trotted up and was about to dismount when Mr. Sackett stalled him.

“I require your boisterous personality for a small errand tonight.”

He leaned down, so that only Mr. Sackett and Rachel could hear him. “What about Benny Boy’s request that I keep the rat under watchful eye tonight?”

“Major Tallmadge can keep the rat distracted.”

“Alright then. What’s in it for me?”

“Free drinks.”

“That’s more like it.” Caleb nestled back in his saddle.

Mr. Sackett turned back to Rachel. “If you require any assistance, Major Tallmadge will be in camp. Expect a messenger tonight with the aforementioned letters—remember, very important letters!”

Rachel could swear that Mr. Sackett nearly skipped towards the stables with the prospects of an evening spent on official business involving beer.

*             *             *             *             *

Rachel was combing out her wavy hair when she heard the coded tap. She wrapped the shawl around her and opened the door expecting to find the Sackett’s usual messenger boy, but instead found Major Tallmadge waiting outside, one hand resting on his sword hilt, the other holding sealed letters.

“Miss Hazard—or Rachel rather,” he bowed slightly and held the letters out.

“I thought you were sending someone?” she quickly took the letter while glancing down the hall.

He stood just outside the doorway, respectfully not entering. “This particularly delivery couldn’t be risked. It’s the instruction for capturing André to a select few others—but it must remain covert unless André is forewarned.” He paused, looking down, as if debating to add anything to the explanation then continued, “And I wanted to check on your wellbeing.” He looked up directly into her eyes as if searching for the answer.

“I’m sufficient, thank you, Benjamin,” she said pulling loose strands of hair behind her ear, “but if you’re caught here won’t the little turncoat surmise that you must be the spy ring leader? Especially since you’re a Major delivering the post to Mr. Sackett’s quarters?”

“Caleb has been keeping him preoccupied lately—“

“Sackett snagged Lieutenant Brewster last minute.” They looked at each other suddenly wary.

The back kitchen door opened and shut with a creak and a bang. Boot heels clomped through the house towards them.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to forgo your lily white reputation, Major,” Rachel said as she pulled him inside the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

“Boots, coat, pants—off, now,” she said, yanking back the bed covers. He looked like he was about to protest, but she cut him off. “Unless you want to jeopardize your entire operation, you need a viable excuse for being here, other than delivering mail.” He seemed to understand her plan and complied, although his face betrayed slight embarrassment.

She tussled her hair then hopped into bed. Ben stood awkwardly by the bedside at first, until she pulled him down onto the bed, hurriedly undoing his vest buttons and chucking it onto the floor next to the pile of his clothes. She pulled the cover up to their shins, sliding under him.

His hands were planted on either side of her and his head hovered above hers. They stared into each other’s eyes, listening to the boots get closer.

“Just repeat to yourself ‘for America the beautiful’ and it will drown out your noble conscience’s screams,” she whispered. He tried to stifle a laugh, but couldn’t. He lowered his face into the pillow next to her, chuckling. His weight was temperate and comforting. Rachel reflexively drew her arms up around him, her hands holding the sides of his rib cage as he laughed, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt contract then release.

The door burst open, and Lieutenant Braggart entered, shoulders erect and chest inflated, but once he surveyed the situation, his face fell and his cheeks flushed.

“You are interrupting official business, Lieutenant,” Rachel said, peering over Major Tallmadge’s shoulder.

“I—I apologize, Major Tallmadge—I didn’t realize you were here for that—I mean—here with a woman—“

Benjamin looked over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”

“My apologies again, sir—I’ll just—

“You’re killing the mood, Lieutenant!” Rachel called out then covered her mouth to stop from laughing.

“I’ll stand at attention outside the rest of the night to make sure you two are not further disturbed,” he said quickly, promptly shutting the door before Ben or Rachel could respond.

They gave each other wide-eyed look, unsure how to proceed; then broke down snickering. Ben rolled off to the side and both stared up at the ceiling.

“Well, that backfired,” Rachel said.

“It was fast thinking on your part. The lad looked like he trapped a skunk when he was expecting a mink.”

Rachel sat up in bed, resting her back against the wooden bedframe. “As long as he doesn’t tell André anything before you’re ready to.”

“Yes,” he said, still laying down, one arm behind his head, the other on his stomach, “we do need to keep André’s suspicions at bay so we can capture him, and so he doesn’t warn Arnold.” Benjamin refused to call Benedict Arnold by his title anymore. He looked over at her, their eyes locking and their gazes penetrating each other as they often did if neither one of them were careful.

Rachel made a snap decision, mostly to avoid settled feelings from floating to the top. “Yes, you deal with those two, and I’ll deal with Malone. Then we’ll skip back across time to the 21st century and leave you to make history.” Rachel said as she reached under the bed and pulled out her box, unlocking it with the key around her neck. “Hopefully we can go back to nearly the time we left, so my goldfish won’t have starved.” She pulled out her cell phone and turned it on.

Benjamin sat up next to her. “Is this one of the devices that you’ve told me about?”

“Yes, this is the cell phone. I wanted to show you what I meant by photographs and video.”

She opened her photo library and tapped on a picture of her family—her mom, dad, and brothers around a dinner table celebrating their parents’ 25th anniversary. She swiped through more photos and some video of family get-togethers, explicating what was happening. Benjamin was genuinely captivated, and not just with the technology.

“You miss them intolerably, don’t you?”

She nodded, swallowing hard and shutting the phone off to save battery. Once it died, that was it, she explained, until she returned to her time with electricity, outlets, and chargers. She pushed the box back under the bed and walked over to the window.

“Nothing here holds you?”

Rachel breathed in the cool air from the cracked window. “The air is cleaner. The stars are brighter.” She looked over at Benjamin who waited for her to explain. “This is pre-industrial revolution air that we’re breathing. It’s unpolluted by factory smoke and engine exhaust—it almost hurts my lungs with its purity. And the sky,“ she gestured towards the heavens, “isn’t infected with false light from electricity. The stars reign down uninterrupted. So, yes, there are charming elements to the 1700s.” She rested her head on her arms, looking out into Milky Way lighted night.

“Sounds like modernity has its costs.” He watched her eyes and wished they would look at him with the same longing that they held gazing up at the heavens. Her white shift nearly glowed in the moonlight making her look like a Rembrandt angel painting he’d seen at Yale—beauty hiding the more formidable aspects. He quietly asked, “There aren’t any other attachments you’ve formed?”

Something in his voice made Rachel turn her head to look at him. She was about to answer when Caleb’s rugged countenance materialized outside the window causing Rachel to jump. Benjamin got up from the bed, and they open the window a little more.

Caleb scanned both of them up and down—Rachel in her shift and Ben in his shirt and stockings. His eyebrows rose, looking joyously shocked.

"It’s not nearly as scandalous as it looks,” Rachel whispered.

Caleb’s face contracted into a rumple of disappointment. “Shucks then, I thought Benny boy had finally—“

“There’s a sentinel at the back door, so be quick with what you’re about,” Benjamin said, with a warning edge to his tone.

“Alright, alright—Sackett’s expedition bore fruit,” he pointed to his temple indicating that the information was safely logged in his memory. “I now am privy to the loyalist lounge, and it sounds as if Malone frequents it.”

“Excellent. We’ll reconvene at dawn to strategize,” Benjamin said.

Caleb poked his head in the room. “And meanwhile, what will ye be up to?”

Benjamin pushed his head back out. “Getting a good night’s rest.”

“While we’re being fastidiously guarded by André’s snitch,” Rachel added.

“And why aren’t we skinning the bastard and sewing a pair of britches out of his hide?” Caleb asked.

“We need him to relay the wrong information to the right people, remember?” Ben said.

“Right, right,” Caleb said resignedly. “Well then, you two have a lovely evening.” Caleb tipped his hat, smiling ear to ear, and walked away.

After Rachel had repeatedly assured Ben that he would not be impugning her honor by sleeping next to her in the bed instead of the floor if they put the pillow in the middle, he consented. They were both exhausted and slept through the night, better than either had slept in a while, feeling snug in the covers from the comfort of another’s heated presence.

Ben woke first, taking a moment to realize that the pillow wall had been deconstructed sometime during the night, and he was pressed up against the Rachel’s back, one arm overhead and the other draped over her side. His lips grazed the nape of her neck. He felt guilty for not immediately pulling away, but lingering instead, feeling her the slow rise and fall of her breath as it entered and left her body. He breathed in the latent rose water scent of her hair and brushed his lips ever so lightly back and forth across the soft skin of her neck.

She sighed and turned over, beginning to wake. Still half asleep, she nestled her head into his chest. Even in her partially conscious state, she was aware of what she was doing, but decided she could pretend ignorance and innocence later. She just wanted to extend this pre-dawn moment before the sun came crashing in, shattering their bond.

Ben pulled her closer, both arms enveloping her. They lay together, feeling each other’s thrumming pulse and imagining they heard beneath its roar hushed appeals. The morning was still and uncomplicated. Listening to another’s sighs was enough to satisfy a person, especially in times of violence and uncertainty.

“Are you awake?” Ben whispered.

Rachel murmured in the negative, and Ben pushed back a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll pretend we’re both still asleep.”

She looked up at him and nodded. He ran his hand through her hair again, even though there weren’t any stray strands to unify.

A rap at the door resounded and Lieutenant Braggart’s muffled voice came through the wood. “Sir, begging your pardon again, but it’s nearly light. I—thought you might want to know in case you were meaning to rise and leave before anyone of importance saw you. Sir?”

“I’m awake, Lieutenant, thank you. You’re dismissed from guard duty.”

“Yes, sir!” The sound of his retreating boots echoed down the hall.

Ben got up and pulled on his pants and his vest and belt and slung his jacket over his arm. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. Rachel sat up in bed, pulling her shawl around her.

“I’ll meet up with you and Caleb soon as I’m presentable.”

Benjamin pulled out his boot knife and handed it to her.

“What’s this for?”

“For our next adventure.”

“I have plenty of knives.”

“Yes, but you don’t have a boot knife. I was examining your stash yesterday in Sackett’s abode and noticed all your weaponry is lodged on your belt or strapped to your back. You need a contingency plan in case you are disarmed. Sometimes they don’t think to search the boot.”

Rachel twirled the six inch blade. It had a sturdy grip and was kept sharp.

“If for no other reason, it will give me peace of mind.”

“If it would relieve some small part of your mind from concern, I’ll accept it.”

He got up and put his coat on, walking towards the door.

He turned back before exiting, “It would relieve a great part of it. You occupy my thoughts more than you realize.”

He left her holding more than just his knife in her hands.


	7. Chapter 7

Rachel donned her Adversary skin and shadowed Ben and Caleb as they made their way to the loyalist lounge, which Sacket and Caleb had confirmed was Mr. Gillsworth’s establishment, a gentlemen’s club of sorts on the edge of town with his rather posh house attached to it.

Ben was out of uniform, and Caleb had trimmed his hedge of a beard. They were to find out Malone and intercept him and his message before it was delivered to Rogers. Mr. Sackett knew that she was chaperoning them; they were not privy to such information though, so they sauntered along, freely conversing. She was too far back and in the cover of the woods to hear any particulars.

Swarthy Dastard’s steps fell as light as a deer’s. The black mare glided through the forest without disturbing the quails that ran underfoot or the starlings perched overhead. Rachel’s guerilla tactical training in her menagerie of combat study was becoming more essential than she had ever imagined it would be. When she had described these tactics to Ben and Caleb one evening, they had scoffed at first, claiming such shady maneuvers were cowardly, but they eventually conceded that shirking about and surprise attacks were “smarter than lining up in an open field and throwing bullets back and forth until one side ran out of ammunition or men or both.”

Rachel pulled up on Swarthy Dastard’s reigns, halting her. She swung down and knelt, peering through the gasmask’s eye sockets. A pair of footprints barely made an impression on the soft earth. They were fresh and either composed of someone who had a size fourteen foot and managed to only weigh that of a sickly grade school girl or someone who was skilled in the art of not being tracked. The prints disappeared off into the brush, and there was no way to follow them. It was like knowing a viper was coiled somewhere ahead but being unable to determine where exactly it would strike.

She hopped back on Swarthy Dastard and nudged her onward. Was Malone and Rogers’s rendezvous a trap? She squeezed her thighs, sending the mare into a canter, taking her deeper into the woods, away from the rode. She had to scout ahead of Ben and Caleb in case someone was waiting for them. Ben’s blade nuzzled in the side of her boot, like a warm stone on a sore muscle.

*             *             *             *             *

“You actually expect me to believe that nothing happened the other night? That you and that pretty red-headed assassin just slumbered the night away?”

“I expect your imagination to respect Rachel’s dignity.” Ben shot Caleb a warning look.

“What a waste.” Caleb shook his head in exasperation. “Unless it’s in Latin or Greek, Yale boy isn’t interested in it.”  

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested in Miss Hazard. I’m just not interested in having a temporal arrangement with her.” Ben gently heeled his horse to pick up speed.

 “Ye’re desiring something more substantial then?” Caleb matched his pace.

 Ben looked away from Caleb inquiring gaze.       

 “Well?”

Ben gave Caleb an annoyed frown. “She is a remarkable woman. I don’t see how anyone can be in her presence and not be overwhelmed.”

Caleb whistled. “Damn, Benny Boy. Ye’ve been ambushed. Thought ye were supposed to be more cautious, considering your profession.”

Ben smiled to himself. “I would feel feeble, but my captor is considerably clever and mesmerizing; hence, I retain my self-worth. Many far greater men have fallen before me.”

“Aye.” Caleb gave a half-cocked smile. “Fallen right off a cliff to be drowned in the sea by sirens.”

“She intimidates you, doesn’t she?” Ben asked coyly.

“Any woman who runs around in pants and a devil mask, waving bayonets about, scares the hell out of me, as it should any man not drunk out of his senses on love. But if that’s what Benjamin Tallmadge requires to make a mark on him, so be it. As for me, I’ve never been more grateful for living in the 18th century, two hundred years well-removed from women capable of castrating me.”

“They may well be able to now. They just don’t have a pair of bayonets at their disposal.” Ben chuckled at Caleb’s circumspect leer, and they both trotted along.

*           *             *             *             *

Rachel motioned for Swarthy Dastard to stay put, not wanting to tie her up in case she needed to signal for an escape. Rachel crept from tree trunk to tree trunk, approaching three figures perched on an embankment by the road. One silhouette was a stout man with feathered cap; the second was an African-American with strong arms and shoulders and saddled with most of the luggage; and the third was a—ninja? He was wrapped in a complete Shinobi garb and crouched on a log as still as a statue. Had Rogers special ordered an overseas fighter? Or had Malone transported another warrior from the future when Rachel had backed out of their bargain?

“The Devil, a ninja, and two Revolutionary soldiers meet in the woods,” she whispered to herself. “This is the beginning of a bad joke.” She unsheathed her two bayonets and soundlessly drew near.

“I’ve had a queer feeling ‘bout that lad since he absconded me grasp. Only a coward sneaks away from a battle, and cowards make good spies because they never have to venture out into the open. They’re always shielded by their decoy personage. If I was choosing a spy ring leader, I’d choose him.” She overheard Rogers talking to his two men.

She pulled out a smoke bomb that she’d been saving for such an occasion and yanked its string, tossing it in front of her. A scarlet cloud billowed and engulfed her. She let out a heaving breath that ominously rattled through the gasmask tubing. What she wouldn’t give for the Imperial March anthem right now.

The three men turned in time to see her materialize through the crimson mist. Rogers’s eyes widened momentarily but then narrowed. “Well, well, what have we here, lads? If ye be the devil, then you should embrace one of your own, so you must not really be the devil.”

The Adversary crossed the two bayonet blades overhead and shorn them downward, sending sparks flying and a metal friction shrill singing out into the surrounding woods.

“This be what ye’re hired for. Akinbode and you,” he pointed to the ninja, “deal with him.”

The Adversary threw both blades at Rogers and Akinbode, pinning their sleeves to the trees behind them. The ninja leapt towards the Adversary, a whirlwind of punches and kicks. The Adversary fended off each jab, blocking and redirecting the energy. He was a firestorm of combinations aimed at the Adversary’s midsection and throat. One slip, and the Adversary would be sorely damaged or dead.

The ninja ran up a trunk tree and flipped over the Adversary, forcing the Adversary to turn about, back towards Rogers and Akinbode, but they were still wiggling the bayonets out of the tree. The ninja jumped and spun, aiming a roundhouse kick at the Adversary’s head. The Adversary went to one knee, spun, and landed an uppercut in the ninja’s groin then stood landing another uppercut palm thrust in the ninja’s shin. The ninja landed on his backside, curling around his bruised manhood and groaning.

The Adversary turned back around just as Rogers and Akinbode released themselves. She walked up, slapped the bayonets aside and jumped into a double thrust kick sending both Rogers and Akinbode backwards over the embankment and her into a back roll to face the ninja who was standing back up.

The ninja charged her, and both him and her tumbled down hill into the middle of the road. She rolled, holding the ninja by his shirt, taking him with her until she was planted on top of him. She doubled chopped the sides of his neck with a bladed palm sending him into a stupor. She then raised her hands and slowly stood as a disgruntled Rogers cocked the pistol aimed at her head. “I will not be mocked by some Satan impersonator.”

She walked backwards a few paces as he advanced. Akinbode threw the unconscious ninja over his shoulder and waited for Rogers to pull the trigger.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t hurt her! I want that honor,” Malone shouted as he rode up.

“Her?” Rogers asked incredulously.

Malone climbed off his horse. “I no longer require your services today. Here’s your payment. Good day.” He shoved a clanking coin purse in Rogers’s hand. “But I will need that gun.” Rogers handed him the pistol.

“And the message?”

“The message was a ruse. You already have what you need.”

“You don’t want us to wait for the spies?”

“I needed you to unarm the Adversary. I can handle the boys.”

The three men ran back into the woods, Rogers calling back at the Adversary, “If we meet again, there’ll be reckoning, Devil-lass.”

“A ninja?”

“Best I could find on short notice.” Malone faced her. “Tut-tut, the little turncoat has been tripped up.”

The Adversary ducked to the side and grabbed the pistol out of Malone’s hands. She backed him up so that she could pick up her bayonets. Stashing the pistol in her belt, she pulled off her tricorn hat and gasmask and tossed them to the side.

“If you call for backup, I’ll fillet you,” she said with a bayonet in each hand.

“I think we got off to a rough start, don’t you?” He took a step backwards and tripped over a stone in the road, going to one knee.        

“I would agree.”

“The 1700s are not kind to women of your talents. Are you sure you won’t reconsider foiling my schemes? It’s not like you’ll be recognized or rewarded for your efforts.”

She held her bayonet under his chin, pressing the blade into the flesh until a small trickle of blood ran down his Adam’s apple and pooled at his collarbone. He squeezed his eyes shut. She then released her hold and sheathed her blades.

“Taking care of the Culper spy ring has turned into a bit of a career,” Rachel said. “I want to go home, back to my family and back to a profession that doesn’t require me to be anonymous.”

“Well, I am delighted that you’ve returned to your senses. You always were an extremely practical person.” His voice was shaky, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead of the back of his sleeve.

*             *             *             *             *

Ben and Caleb had found a table in the corner where they could survey the entire room. They sipped their drinks while carrying on conversations.

“I suppose what really gets my goat is how does she know some of the information that she does? It’s eerie. Unnatural even,” Caleb said while keeping his eyes on the entrance. “Maybe she is the devil.”

“Hardly. She’s a pilgrim a long time away from home.” Ben slowly panned the room without moving his head, studying each countenance but not lingering long enough to be rude and attract demands for explanations.

“And what, pray, do ye mean by that bit of poetry?”

“She’s from the forthcoming time, the future.”

Caleb took away Ben’s drink and smelled it, handing it back to him. “She’s really got you tricked.”

“Think on it. How else could she know what she knows and do what she does?”

“My grandmother used to say some people are touched. I think Miss Hazard’s been beaten by whatever usually touches people.”

“Rachel has as well as proved it. She also showed me some of the technology from her time—over two hundred and thirty years from now.” Ben watched Caleb’s expressions change from disbelief to reluctant belief to outright consternation.

Caleb was about to say something but decided to down his drink instead. He drummed his fingers, and Ben waited for him to initiate eye contact again. Caleb looked back and shrugged. “Fine then.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.”

“That’s all you have to say—fine?”

“What else is there to say? At least I know she’s no supernatural Salem wench that can turn me into a toad.”

Ben and Caleb weakly clinked glasses then Caleb, noticing his drink was empty, took Ben’s away and finished it.

Malone entered, and Ben nodded towards him. Caleb tapped his nose in reply. They watched Malone order and open a letter and read it. The waiter blocked their view, giving them new tankards and picking up their nearly empty ones. They sipped and waited for Rogers to show up.

“Does the room seem fuzzy to you?” Caleb asked, rubbing his eyes.

Ben noticed Caleb seemed far away even though he was right across the table from him.

The last thing Ben remembered was Malone raising his glass in their direction and mouthing, “Three cheers for the red, white, and blue.”


	8. Chapter 8

Ben woke, the world a hazy impressionistic painting. He tried to lift his head, but it ached and his neck felt stiff, so he turned it instead. Next to him, Caleb was gagged and tied. That’s when Ben noticed the course cloth bit in his mouth, and the rope cutting into his wrists and another fastening him to a tree.

Other images farther away began to focus. They were in a swamp. Malone was sitting on a log writing a letter. Caleb let out a groan, and Malone looked up from his writing.

“Tut-tut, the spy masters are finally up.” Malone jerked down their gags. “You may have a bit of a hangover.”

Caleb smacked his dry lips. “I barely had three glasses of ale, why do I feel like I drank a barrel?”

“Rohypnol, a futuristic charmer,” Malone said as he pulled several waterproof bags from under the dock. “No need to feel foolish, boys. You’re not the first to succumb to its enchantment.”

“Is this that yet-to-be-a-bedsheet-stain you were telling me about?” Caleb asked Ben.

Before Ben could answer, Malone said, “Forgive my manners. We lack decorum in the future, but yes, I’m Malone—Benedict Malone Arnold. I’m sure Rachel has filled you in on much about me, who by the way, sends her adieus.”

“Where is Rachel?” Ben asked, the energy from sudden panic filling him. “What have you done with Rachel?” Ben strained against the rope, the braided fibers creaked.

“She came to her senses. The 1700s is no place for a high-spirited woman like her. If she managed to stop me—which I will readily admit she could have—she would have no way of returning to her era, dooming herself to a long life of discomfort at best, and at worst, a short life of discomfort and an _untimely_ death, pun intended.” Malone shrugged then popped off the top of a log revealing controls and gages that had been hidden inisde. “Of course, she left assuming that you two could complete your mission with the information she provided. She probably didn’t account for me smuggling along some pharmaceuticals to aid my quest, and I think she overestimated both of you.”

Caleb looked flabbergasted as he watched Malone turn knobs and push buttons, angling the solar panels to catch the light glinting through the trees. Rachel had described the time shaft generator to Ben, so it wasn’t as newfangled to him. The look on Ben’s face resembled more of one who had recently been gutted and left hanging while the remnants of life drained from him.

“Ben, we’ve been through worse scrapes before,” Caleb whispered, trying to comfort his friend who looked suddenly disheartened. But Ben’s dejection had nothing to do with getting out of this predicament alive or dismantling Malone’s plot—it had everything to do with knowing that he would never be in a certain person’s presence again. He had known this acute misery before—when his mother was buried, when he had learned of his brother’s death—but the pang that expanded in him like a fog did not seem like it would ever dissipate.

“This is war. There is no time for sentimentality,” he mouthed to himself, but the swelling ache did not subside.

“I present to you the last letter I am authoring,” Malone said, taking a folded paper out of his coat pocket. “Once this is delivered to General Arnold, and the other letter already waiting for Major André is picked up, my subversion will be complete. My forefather, Benedict Arnold, will be doubly rewarded for my hard work, and you two will be permanently silenced and unable to stop the West Point plot. Tut-tut, looks like the Washington’s spy hounds are just pups.”

“That’s hardly fair, you billowing blowhole, you had prior knowledge,” Caleb shouted. Malone walked over and re-gagged him.

“Now, now—don’t be a sore loser.”

“Your family’s name is worth undermining an entire nation?” Ben asked.

“Speaking of family, I’m expecting two trusted cousins of mine shortly. They’re bringing some odds and ends that will ensure the moon blight is contained. I can’t wait to see your face, Major, when you realize that Benedict Arnold’s decedents will prosper—and yours will never even be born.”

Caleb roared beneath his gag, but Ben simply glared at Malone, knowing it was futile to spout grand threats. He needed a quiet minute to consider what to do.

“Tut-tut, it’s time to tick-tock, what, what?” Malone laughed, pulling the gag back between Ben’s teeth. Malone set up several towers in a small circle. Once aligned, they lit up. He then pushed buttons on his control panel. Streams of electric waves popped and sizzled, eventually reaching out and connecting the towers together in blue and white emissions that grew more vibrant. In the center of the circle, a deep crimson whole formed and grew. The brightness became too painful to look at, so Malone shielded his face with his arm, and Ben and Caleb shut their eyes. Wind from a tunnel was heard, like a tornado touching down. Then silence except for the residue hissing of the currents that were fading.

There was a large splash, which made Ben and Caleb open their eyes and Malone lower his arm. A few bags were strewn about, and a still body lay in the center of the circle. Next to him was the Adversary’s gasmask and tricorn hat.

“Henry! What happened? Where’s Dick?” Malone ran to the body’s side, turning it over. Henry’s eyes were wide open. A small hole at the point of collarbone still leaked blood.

The swamp erupted at the edge of the dock with Dick screaming, “She’s destroying everyth—“

A bayonet bloomed in the center of his open mouth, and he slumped back into the swamp. Rachel stood behind him in the knee-deep water, holding the dripping bayonet in her hand. Her wet Adversary garb clung to her.

Malone lunged for one of the bags, but Rachel pulled herself onto the dock and ran up to him, putting the bayonet’s point under his shin. “Your time is up,” she said, digging the point into his flesh, forcing him to stand with his hands raised.

“It seems I underestimated your resolve,” Malone bowing slightly, but stiffening when Rachel pushed the bayonet deeper yet. “You do realize what you’ve done, yes?”

“Oh, yes. I left a small explosive device in my wake, thus your portal to 2015 will be corked in less than two minutes. I’ll dispatch you with your cousins to the netherworld shortly, and the Revolutionary War will proceed as it should.” Rachel backed him up several steps.

Caleb let out a muffled cheer, but a cold sweat trickled down Ben’s face. He let out a shout, when he saw the pistol holstered in Malone’s belt against his back. In a fluid single move, Malone turned, deflecting Rachel’s arm that held the bayonet with his right hand, pulling out the revolver with his left hand and leveling it and firing—where her face should have been. She had ducked. She did a backwards roundhouse, knocking the gun out of his hand, rising and doing a push kick, landing him firmly on his backside. Rachel ditched the bayonet and picked up the gun.    

   He laid there for a moment then chuckled, turning on his side and propping himself up on an elbow. “Do you know what the name Rachel means? It means, ‘ewe’ in Hebrew—a sheep. Appropriate, eh? You are the lamb to be slaughtered, just another woman sacrificing her life for men’s gain.” He rose. “Do you think they’re going to write songs in your honor? Name a day after you? You won’t even be a footnote in his memoir,” he pointed to Ben. “Remember this cruel fact as you lay in straw mattress at night—you fated yourself to serve a country that won’t even give you the benefit of a voting ballot.”

“The key word is that _I_ fated myself—I chose this.”

Malone rushed at Rachel, grabbing her around the waist and slamming her against a tree. The wind knocked out of her, and she dropped the gun. He landed several swift kidney punches, causing her to double over. But she mustered her strength, raising her elbow and smashing it down into the soft pressure point where his neck and shoulder converged—once then again—forcing him fall to his knees. She then grabbed his collar and raised him enough to knee his face. The sound of nose cartilage imploding was followed by Malone’s screams. He fell back, grabbing his bleeding nose.

She scrambled for the gun, but Malone grabbed a thick branch lying nearby and swiped it across the side of her skull, knocking her back. He made a mad crawl towards the firearm, but she kicked it into the water then kicked at his face. He grabbed her leg and rolled, pulling her further down the dock and landing top of her, knee in her chest and branch under her chin. He slowly pressed down on the branch, choking her. She could feel her eyes swelling red as her trachea was constricted.

“You’ve only accomplished screwing yourself in this new arrangement. You’re a woman with no title, no family, and no protection, stuck here in the eighteenth century. This is a mercy killing.”

Rachel bent her leg, letting go of the branch with one hand and reached for the boot blade that Ben had given her.

“What’s truly tragic though is that all your efforts were for naught. After I choke the life out of you, I’ll plant a tomahawk in the Major’s and his messenger pigeon’s forehead. The Culper spy ring will be no more, my forefather will succeed, and my family will live in triumph instead of infamy.”

Rachel’s fingertips felt the tip of the blade’s hilt.

“Die with that knowledge.” He momentarily lifted his weight, preparing to deliver a final wind-pipe crushing blow, giving Rachel just enough leeway to grab the blade and slide it between his ribs, puncturing his left lung. She yanked it out and plunged it in again, this time in the tender side abdomen, through the coils of his intestines.

He involuntarily reacted by grasping his side and rising off of her. She lifted her leg, shoving him the rest of the way off onto his back. She flipped onto her stomach, gasping. After several gulps of burning air, she met Ben’s eyes. He looked like he was in pure agony, tied and gagged and unable to lend aid. She nodded at him.

“You do realize that you’ve only accomplished screwing yourself with your selfish mission?” she said through gasps as she crawled towards him. “You’re a man with several vital organs irreparably injured. Eighteenth century medicine won’t be able to save you. This is a mercy killing.”

“If you kill me, there isn’t a hope in heaven that you will see your home or your family again,” he spat blood as he spoke.

“So be it.” She pulled the blade from his side once more, held his head still with one hand and thrust the blade into his right eye socket. His bodied quivered for a few seconds then went limp.

Rachel pulled the blade out and wiped it on his shirt. She knelt there for a moment, feeling anchored to the spot by an anvil the width of her heart and stomach. Caleb’s gagged protest jolted her from her melancholy.

She ungagged Ben and sawed through his restraints first, handing him the knife so he could do the same to Ben. She slumped against the tree, sliding down until she sat at its trunk. Caleb walked over to Malone, kicking him in the side. “I’m no damn messenger pigeon, ye one-eyed bastard.”

Ben knelt on one knee next to Rachel, tilting her head gently up to assess the damage then gently turning it from side-to-side. “Can you breathe alright now? Do you have problems swallowing?”

Rachel’s eyes almost teared up, but she firmly wiped them away with her sleeve. “I’ll be fine,” she said as she attempted to stand, but Ben placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Rest a moment.”

Caleb examined the time shaft’s generator. “You think any of this would fetch a respectable price on the black market?”

“Caleb, don’t touch any of that,” Ben said over his shoulder, his hand still holding Rachel’s shoulder.

“You sure this isn’t witchcraft?”

“It’s science—explainable and duplicable,” Ben answered, putting a loose strand of Rachel’s hair behind her ear. He gazed intently into Rachel’s eyes, but hers were staring into the distance.

“Which is why we need to destroy it,” Rachel said numbly. “As a last precaution.”

“There’s no way for you to,” Caleb mimicked the noise that the machine made, “back to your time?”

Rachel shook her head. “I’m here for good.”

Ben lifted her shin, so that she had to meet his gaze. He whispered so that Caleb could not overhear, “You are here for good. By Providence’s unfathomable design, you have a great purpose—not by mischance, not because of Malone’s twisted will, but because certain things are ordained, and your presence here now is one of them.”

Ben’s entire body seemed intent at conveying this truth. Rachel could almost feel his resolve thundering through him, its peals enveloping her. She gulped down a knotted ball of despondency, cupped one hand over Ben’s, and nodded. Ben held the back of her head and leaned in, their foreheads touching. They closed their eyes, and Ben guided her through several deep breaths.

“I hate to interrupt a touching moment of candor and reconciliation, but Malone’s plan is still alive and well,” Caleb said as he took out the letter from Malone’s inner-coat pocket. He handed it to Ben, who unfolded and read it aloud.

 

**Dear Gustavus,**

**The trouble makers have been silenced, and my cousins and I will personally intercept any instructions that may give you away. Proceed as planned.**

**Your admirer,**

**M**

“Arnold won’t miss this. There’s nothing pertinent here,” Ben said.

“Well then, we have a courtship appointment with that final letter then heading in route to André,” Caleb said as he tied Malone’s ankles with the leftover rope to several large stones.

“Best get back to camp before we’re missed,” Rachel said, taking Ben’s hand as he lifted her to standing.

They pulled apart the machine, throwing it into the swamp along with Malone’s body. Rachel watched as his face and the silver machine parts sank into the murky water, disappearing into the cloud of silt.


	9. Chapter 9

“How are we going to get into the inner-chambers of the loyalist lounge, read the final message, and get back out without being detected?”

“You have a talent for gutting a conversation down to the bare minimum,” Mr. Sackett said looking over the rim of his spectacles at Caleb. All four sat at the table in the flicker of the fire and candles.

“Not being detected is key. We want to know its contents, but we also want the message passed along as if all is well,” Ben said,

“We have an invitation to the location of the message, but for a female person, not one of us,” Mr. Sackett said, his glasses reflecting the letter’s elegant scribble.

“An invitation to what?” Caleb asked.

“A bacchanal.”

Caleb looked expectantly at Rachel. “Well, couldn’t you—you know?”

Rachel walked over to the door and shut it firmly, turning with a green fire seething through her eyes.

“Could I _what_?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “They’re men, you’re a woman—put two and two together—“

“I’ll kill gladly kill a man, but I won’t do anything else with him,” she said.

“Are 21st century women all prudes?”

“I have sacrificed enough—I’ve given up any hope of seeing my family or home again, of amounting to anything more than biological destiny, and all for a country that doesn’t even recognize me as a legitimate citizen because I lack a few key parts. I’m not forgoing my dignity, too.”

Mr. Sackett looked like he wanted to discretely leave the room, but Benjamin watched Rachel fixedly.

“That’s a bit much—“ Caleb began to say.

“Women do not get the right to vote until 1920— _that’s_ a bit much. We’re expected to birth sons to swell your ranks, but not allowed to participate in political activities in any other way.”

Caleb looked over to Mr. Sackett who raised his hands in surrender, picked up a stack of papers, and scurried out of the room, muttering something about devising an alternative plan.

“No need to get so offended,” Caleb said, swiping an apple out of bowl and biting into it.

“I’m stuck in this century—a time when women have limited agency and no family or means to shield myself. I’m not _offended_ —I’m _defending_ myself from being degraded because there’s no one else who will do that for me.”

“Yes there is.” Ben stood, looking at her then at Caleb. Rachel let out a bit of air, feeling less besieged.

“I don’t know why she has her stockings in a bind—it’s a compliment. . .of sorts.” Caleb threw up his hands.

“You don’t understand because you men are admired for your virility, not your virginity.”

“There is a difference between sacrificing our lives and our selves,” Ben said as he walked up and stood by Rachel.

“Fine, fine—keep your precious virtue in tack. I still think screwing a man would be more pleasurable than scoring him.” Caleb shook his head and walked out the door chewing on his apple.

Rachel and Benjamin regarded each other briefly. “He has a salty hide, but his heart beats true.” Rachel turned away, but Benjamin touched her elbow with the tips of fingers, and she turned back towards him. “And you are not alone. I will always be your comrade—in arms and in all else.”

“Thank you, Benjamin.”

Mr. Sackett’s heels clicked back into the room. He held a stack of forged invitations in his hand. “How about a ball instead of a bacchanal? Earlier in the evening and you’ll only need to hoist your skirts for a dance or two.”

*             *             *             *             *

Rachel walked into the room, feeling incredibly vulnerable and awkward in the fancy dress. All three men stood, and Ben who had been in the middle of a sentence, lost his train of thought.

“Well, I’ll be. Ye clean up nicely. You may be able to fool the genteel that you’re one of them,” Caleb blurted, and Mr. Sackett promptly bopped him over the head.

“Thank you, I think,” Rachel said.

Ben still didn’t say anything, feeling muddled and disoriented. His thoughts were usually not a jumble of poetic urges; thus, he was equally annoyed and entranced.

“We’ll run through a few scenarios, since custom and manners in the 21st century are most likely different than now,” Mr. Sackett pulled a chair out. “This ball is at the same residency as the bacchanal, but different social circle, obviously.”

Rachel sat. She knew the basics from the slew of reenactments and movies that she had worked on, but balls were not her expertise. They devised plans over a meal of gruel.

“What about the dancing? Can I get through the evening without doing any?” Rachel asked.

“Of course not. You’re an attractive woman. You’ll be quite popular, I’m sure,” Mr. Sackett said as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, but he paused when he noticed the panicked look on Rachel’s face.

“You do dance in the 21st century, don’t ye?” Caleb asked.

“Yes, but unless they’re doing the Electric Slide or the Macarena, I’m afraid I’ll just have to be a wallflower.”

“Even I know how to do a simple reel,” Caleb said in disbelief.

“I’ll teach you,” Ben said, looking at Rachel with his sincere blue-grey eyes. “We’ll have a lesson after dinner.”

Rachel nodded, “Thank you, Benjamin.”

“This should be entertaining—the assassin kicking up her heels,” Caleb laughed.

*             *             *             *             *

Caleb tapped out a beat on his knee as Ben guided Rachel through several popular jigs. He gently coaxed her around the room, one hand on her waist with hers on top of his, the other delicately clasping her other hand.

“You two are making me dizzy. I’ll going to go get a drink.” Caleb got up and left.

“Our maestro just deserted us,” Rachel said.

“I think he’s disappointed that you dance so well.” Ben smiled as he bowed.

Rachel curtsied in response, and they began the routine again with Ben humming the beat. He messed up a few times, causing Rachel to fight back laughter. He smiled, too, as they stepped together facing each other then back again, their eyes fastened on each other. They turned, with one set of arms and hands around each other’s waist and the other set above their heads. As they turned, Ben pulled Rachel ever-so-slightly closer. They kept turning until they noticed that they missed the next set of steps.

“I’ve lost count,” Rachel said.

“So have I.”

They slowly turned to stop, lowering their arms and hands above their head, but not letting go of each other.

Caleb walked back in the room. “Can you two still tell which ways up and which ways down?”

Ben still intently gazed at Rachel. “I’m honestly not sure anymore,” he said.


	10. Chapter 10

               The air was stuffy with fragrant perfumes, powdered wigs, and blazing candles. Rachel could understand why women swooned so easily with the concentrated fragrances combined with limited air intake. She hadn’t allowed her corset to be tightened all the way, insisting that she couldn’t be a proper spy if she couldn’t get enough oxygen to her brain.

                Mr. Sackett had a trusted friend escort her, a benign elderly chap called Mr. Benson who was actually British by birth but sympathized with the Patriot’s cause—“Mostly due to the fact that he fell out of favor in British society and has all his investments tied up here now,” Mr. Sackett had explained. Mr. Benson was under the impression that Rachel was in pursuit of a suitor though, not vying for the opportunity to riffle through the host’s office papers.

                The host, Mr. Gillsmith, was simply a referee. He ran the loyalist lounge and passed on messages between Major André and Malone and whoever else would swear fealty to King George III. After curtsying to him, Rachel gratefully smelled a respectable amount of alcohol on his breath. _The duller his senses, the better._

                Mr. Benson guided her through the rooms, nodding gracefully to acquaintances and stopping to introduce her occasionally as his friend’s niece who recently was coming out in society. He eventually parked them in a corner of the ball room where one of his favorite lady friends loitered.

                “My dear, it’s so difficult to find a suitable match during these volatile times,” the frilly clad woman bemoaned while swishing her fan at a violent rate. “The traditional courtship seasons are all amuck.”

                “Indeed,” Rachel replied, “It seems the eligible men are courting death instead of damsels.”

                The woman gave her a sympathetic nod. “Take heart, my dear, Major Bradford is looking your way with the most enchanted twinkle in his eye.”

                Rachel set her teeth together, not letting her smile fall. She didn’t want any complications or distractions tonight. Major Bradford strode over, eyes set on his prey. Rachel had heard Ben and Caleb mention Bradford as a pompous, spoiled churl who actively belittled General Washington. Major Bradford stopped a few feet from Rachel and bowed.

                “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of an introduction, my lady,” he said in a practiced velvety tone.

                “Major Bradford, this is my friend’s niece, Miss Hazard,” Mr. Benson said. “Miss Hazard, this is Major Bradford.”

                “If I may be so bold?” he demonstratively said more than asked as he took her dance card and wrote his name on several lines.

                Rachel was annoyed but planned on “coming down with the vapors” before she had to dance with this unflinching bum hole, so she didn’t protest. “Not at all.”

                “If you ladies will pardon me, I must attend some official business. Business before pleasure, unfortunately,” Major Bradford swooped Rachel’s gloved hand up and planted a kiss on it then went gliding away.

                Rachel, relieved she didn’t have to make charming conversion with him, surveyed the room behind her glass of punch, choreographing her entrances and exits in her mind. The string quartet in the larger chamber warmed up their instruments, and a rustle hose and swish of satins and silks followed with prospective dancers gathering into the room.

                Rachel danced one jig quite successfully with a blushing baby-faced lad. She rather enjoyed it, wishing that she could just dance tonight and forget about the more pressing matters at hand. But as the room revolved in a carousel of crystal, candles, and colorful gowns, she found herself wishing Major Tallmadge’s face was the one across from her.

                With a flourish of the strings, the dance ended. Her partner and her parted with a smile just as the clock struck a quarter till midnight. She had agreed to meet Ben and Caleb out in the swamp around one. She scanned the room and was satisfied with the state of inebriation and diversion, so she made her way over to Mr. Benson, patting her upper lip and forehead with a handkerchief, prepared to put on her fairer sex act.

                “I’m a bit winded, Mr. Benson. I think I’ll go freshen up.”

                “Quite, my dear. Don’t overexert yourself.”

                As she ascended the stairs, the noise from the revelry settled below her. She looked over her shoulder, ascertaining that she was alone, then picked Mr. Gillsmith’s office lock with a flick of her wrist. She nabbed a candelabrum from the hallway table and entered the cold, dark room in a bubble of flickering light. Quietly and quickly she picked the only desk door with a lock and breached its false bottom, finding a familiar letter inside. Unfolding Malone’s last message to General Rogers on the desk, she realized it was in code and would take time to decrypt. She pulled out her cellphone from her skirt pocket, turned it on and took several photos. The sudden flash seemed like lightening from a bygone era, one that startled her now.

                She turned her phone back off to conserve battery, refolded the message, and arranged the contents of the desk door as they were before relocking it. Peeking out the door to make sure the hallway was still unmanned, she slipped out of it, locking the handle and replacing the candelabra on the table.

                “Miss Hazard? Are you up here?” Major Bradford’s voice mounted the staircase.

                There was small sitting area that Rachel ducked into. She nestled into one of the chairs pretending to be asleep. Major Bradford stood at archway entrance peering at her. The room felt colder with him blocking the light. His boots landed with muffled thuds on the rug as he walked over to her and towered above her. He leaned down and traced a line with his finger from her temple down the side of her face, over her lips, further down her neck, and—she decided to awaken, clearing her throat and rubbing her eyes.

                He stood up stiffly. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, but I heard the gaiety tired you and wanted to inquiry on you.”

                She faked a yawn. “You’re too kind, Major Bradford. I think if I rest a bit longer, I will be quite recovered.”

                “I will await your return below,” he bowed and left.

                “Like the devil waits to devour souls,” she muttered.

                She skidded behind the wall of people in the ballroom, made her excuses to leaving early to Mr. Benson, retrieved her hood and cloak, and swept out the door. The chilled night air felt stimulating after the stupor induced by the overheated ball. Once she was out of sight in the woods, she looked back at Mr. Gillsmith’s house, its large windows lit up and music drifting through the trees. She could see Major Bradford inside looking about, trying not to seem too eager.

“Here’s the official bird solute for a predatory peacock,” she said as she flipped him off. She hoisted up her skirt and sprinted towards the swamp.

*             *             *             *             *            

                Ben and Caleb hunched behind several trees, Ben in his cape and Caleb in his overcoat. Their warm breath rolled out in clouds that dissipated into evening air. The water rippled behind them and the horses were tied up and contentedly grazing.

                Ben kept glancing up at the moon through the trees, calculating the time.

                “You seem nervous Benny Boy. You’re usually as cool as a dip in the Delaware.”

                “I’ll ease when Rachel has safely returned.”

                They both spied a figure moving towards them.

                “Oh say can you see?” Caleb hissed.

                 “By the dawn’s early light,” Rachel replied. She had determined the passcode, explaining its significance. Whenever she talked about their future/her past, Ben looked enthralled, but Caleb gave her an uncanny stare, which also amused her.

                 She ran up to them slightly winded. “Are you alright?” Ben asked.

                 She nodded. “Oh yes, I have a picture of the message. We just have to copy it down and decipher it.”

                “Let’s hoof it then.” Caleb unwound the horses’ reigns from the branch. “I don’t like being this near the water this late. One never knows what might wash up on the banks—“

                 They turned and faced a small troupe of patchwork sailors who had just moored their dinghies. Several had guns drawn and aimed, others had scabbards unsheathed, reflecting the moonlit water.   Ben, Caleb, and Rachel raised their hands slowly. Rachel tried to step in front of Ben, but he cut her off and upstaged her, shielding her with his body.

                 The men parted, and a man who didn’t look like your typical scallywag stepped forward. He appeared to be in his late twenties, early thirties and wore a three piece suit of fine silk and elaborate gold embroidery and a high stiff collar that framed his groomed dark facial hair.  

                 “José Gaspar,” he pronounced with the flourish and the bow of one well-practiced in the art of gentility. “But better known as Gasparilla, the Last of the Buccaneers.”

                “Ye’re a bit far north, aren’t ye?” Caleb asked, hands still raised.

                “ _Sí, sí_. I came to see what the fuss was about and if there was any profit to be had from it, of course,” Gasparilla twisted the tips of his black mustache. “The Spanish colonies in Florida are all abuzz of the upstart Rebels and their congressionally mandated privateers.”

                 “I’m afraid you’ve captured two poor soldiers,” Ben said, sizing up the men and their weapons.

                 “And their lovely, high-born traveling companion, no?” He motioned towards Rachel. “Ransoms are always lucrative in times of peace or of war.”

                  “I’m an orphan,” Rachel blurted.

                  “Most unfortunate,” Gasparilla said, bunching his eyebrows together theatrically. He looked his quarry up and down, letting his face play out the debate going on inside his head. He stopped in front of Rachel. “You’ve just returned from a night of dancing, no?”

                  “Yes, El Captain,” she said with respect.              

                  “Normally, I would simply slit your throats,” looking at Caleb and Ben, “but there is a lady present, so,” he shrugged. “I be a cultured man and a fair one by most standards,” he said, pacing again. “Teach me a new tune or a dance that pleases me, and I’ll free all three of you with all your appendages still _adjunto_.” He turned and clicked his heels together. “But it must be _nuevo_ , and I consider myself to be a musical connoisseur.”

                Caleb gulped. “Don’t suppose you’ve already heard ‘Spanish Ladies’ ballad, eh?”

                Gasparilla let out a single fire guffaw. “Try again, my _desperados_.”

                “There’s the Setauket Reel,” Ben offered but was given a condescending gaze by Gasparilla as a response.

                Rachel spied a sailor in the back plucking on a fiddle. “If I could show you a song and a dance that you’ve never seen before, El Captain, would that do?”

                “I would most impressed, sí.”

                 “Do you have a fiddler in your gallant crew?” she asked. Ben and Caleb both gave her a side-eye.

                “Sí, Senorita, I can provide you with accompaniment,” Gasparilla gestured and the fiddler stepped forward.

                She lowered her hands. “I’ll hum the tune for you, and you play it,” she said to the fiddler. “I’ll sing the lyrics a few times and show you the dance, then everyone must join in, agreed?”

                Gasparilla nodded to her and his men. Rachel hummed in the fiddler’s ear who tapped out the beat then began to play a lively tune. Rachel clapped, getting the men to the join. Once they were all clapping and the fiddler was sawing away at his strings, she lifted her skirts just enough so they could see her feet, and she began dancing in a circle as she sang, “He came to town like a midwinter storm/He rode through the fields so handsome and strong/His eyes was his tools and his smile was his gun/But all he had come for was having some fun.”

                She motioned for the men to join her. “If it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe/I'd been married long time ago/Where did you come from? Where did you go?/Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?”

                Soon the entire crew was singing and dancing in a circle. Gasparilla clapped to the beat and kept a wary eye on Caleb and Ben. The song ceased and the crew let out an approving roar, clasping each other on the backs and skipping about elated.

                “You are correct, Senorita. I have never heard this song or seen this dance before in my life. A bargain is an _acuerdo_.” He bowed to Rachel. “But we would be appreciative if you could point us in the direction of a British vessel on our way out.” Gasparilla looked expectantly at Ben.

                Ben pointed out some suggestions on the Captain’s map, and the pirates pushed back out into the swamp heading towards the sea, and the Patriots rode back to camp, releasing stress through rounds of disbelieving laughter along the way.    


	11. Chapter 11

Mr. Sackett and Ben transcribed the message from the photo as Rachel read it to them. Caleb looked on with some awe and superstition at the device she held in her hands. Mr. Sackett read the translated version:

 

**John Anderson,**

**The moon blight has been delivered to Rogers who has already infected a test subject. As undoubtedly will be reported, its effectiveness will include madness and violence. Your enemy will turn on each other, leaving you to make short work of them. I have already described the necessary measures to keep the moon blight on the enemy’s side and not yours—please take my instructions seriously. There is no cure for this malady. As already agreed, please bestow all favors for this advantageous boon upon Gustavus, our mutual companion.**

**Congratulations on waging biological warfare in the traditions of the Mongols.**

**For king and country!**

**M**

“Gustavu sounds Hessian,” Caleb said. “You’d think Arnold would have picked something less portentous.”

Ben took the letter from Mr. Sackett and re-read. “It might as well still be in code. What is moon blight? Who is the test subject?” He glanced over at Rachel who was silently gazing down at her cellphone. She was looking at a picture of her family, the one she had showed Ben. “Rachel?”

She looked up, dazed. “Yes?”

“Do you have any ideas what this letter might be describing?”

“I’m afraid not. It could be any number of things. The university lab from which Malone purloined had a collection of dangerous and deadly diseases.”

“We need to go make a few inquiries around camp, particularly at the hospital barracks for any new illnesses,” Mr. Sackett said while putting on his hat and coat. Caleb and he walked out.

Ben noticed Rachel did not hop up to join. Her face was sorrowful and in the ball gown, she looked like a forlorn angel cast out of paradise.

Rachel watched as her battery bar drained and the screen went black—her brothers’ goofy grins, her dad’s obnoxious tie, and her mom’s retro perm disappearing forever.

Ben saw the blank screen and squeezed her shoulder. His bare hand on her skin was a welcome connection, warm and assuring.

“If you wish to stay—“

“No, I’ll come with you, just let me change quickly.” She went to her room, threw off her gown and put on her normal ware, undoing her curls and letting them fall freely down her shoulders. She placed her cellphone back into the box under bed, the snap of its lid resounding in the small room.

*             *             *             *             *

Ben and Rachel walked side by side through the camp, occasionally stopping and inquiring about anyone with a cough or noticeable ailment. No one seemed to have anything beyond the usual wartime illnesses—infection, exhaustion, dysentery, beriberi, quinsy, pneumonia, fevers, rashes, and tumors. Most soldiers were bandaged and suppressing moans.

“Everyone looks sick,” Rachel whispered to Ben who nodded in reply. “If Rogers already infected someone, it could have been incubating for a month already.”

Caleb and Mr. Sackett appeared at the far end of the lane and waved at them. Ben raised his hands and Caleb shook his head.

“Nothing,” he mouthed.

Just then Lieutenant Braggart ran out into the middle of the lane shrieking. His uniform was tattered and his body was scratched as if he’d been clawing himself. He was pale, sweating, shaking, and raking and snapping at the air. Several soldiers got up from their campfires, bewildered, giving him a wide birth. His balance looked off because he lunged for several nearby soldiers who easily eluded him by jumping out of the way. He fell to the ground where he hacked and coughed, foaming at the mouth. He saw Ben and Rachel and began crawling towards them at a rapid pace, his head at a strange angle and his eyes rolling back.

Caleb grabbed a shovel, ran up behind Braggart, and conked him over the head. He dropped unconscious.

“Is he possessed?” Caleb asked, leaning over to have a closer look.

Rachel pushed him back. “Don’t go near him. I think I know what moon blight is now.”

Mr. Sackett walked up holding his hat on his head, looking a bit unnerved. “And what would that be?”

“Rabies.”

“Rabies?” Caleb asked.

“From the Latin _rabere,_ which means ‘rave.’ Homer’s raging dog disease.” Ben put one hand on his waste and used the other to scratch his head. “But I’ve never seen someone who had it. Are they always this deranged and aggressive?”

“Aggression is typical and whoever they attack and bite will show the same signs within a month,” Rachel sighed. “It’s highly contagious and there’s no cure. If you’re infected, you die of dehydration after going mad.”

“I read of several cases in Boston a few years ago. Terrible way to die.” Mr. Sackett asked.

“If there’s no cure, what do we do?” Caleb asked.

“Tie him down, keep him isolated,” Rachel added the last part solemnly, “and wait for nature to take its course.”

*             *             *             *             *

Ben gave several soldiers orders to fetch a gurney, rope, and a potato sack then supervised while Braggart was secured. Ben and Caleb returned to spy headquarters to find Mr. Sackett going through papers. Caleb filled a tankard and sat near the fire, propping his feet up.

“Has Rachel retired?” Ben asked, undoing his cape and setting it aside.

“Ah, no. She said she was going to go sit by the river for a spell.”

“She seemed glum,” Caleb said, downing several gulps.

“I imagine she’s missing her family,” Ben said, hands on his hips. “I’m going to go check on her.”

“You don’t really think _she_ needs looking after, do ye? I pity the man who mistakes her for easy target.”

“Even the strongest people need to be cared for sometimes,” Ben said, putting his cape back on and stepping outside.

“That a boy,” Caleb smiled.

“Did I miss something?” Mr. Sackett looked up from his papers and over his spectacles.

“Benny Boy has a soft spot for the devil.”


	12. Chapter 12

Rachel sat on a tree root near the river with her back against the bulbous trunk, listening to the stream gurgle and watching the moonlight highlight the ripples. She had the shawl tightly pulled around her shoulders, occasionally using a corner of it to wipe her eyes which were streaming. She took large swallow, fighting back sobs from ravaging her because she knew if she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to stop for quite a while.

“Rachel?” Benjamin appeared on the bank.

“Major,” she said, standing and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did you need something?”

“I came to inquiry about you.” He ducked beneath a low-lying branch and walked up to her.

“I just needed a moment to sulk and wallow in self-pity, that’s all” she said, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.

“You’re not brooding. You’re grieving.” He wiped a stray tear away with his thumb then held her face in his hand. The soft sincerity of his touch caused Rachel to crumple inside. She sank back down, but he caught her, lifting her back up into his resilient embrace. She buried her face into the crook his neck and cried. His cravat smelled like gunpowder and the forest. He held her head and back, and rocked her until her sobs subsided.

“I must confess something,” he whispered into her ear, “When Malone said you had returned, for the first time, I felt like surrendering. Not because I thought defeat was inevitable, but because victory was pointless.” He tightened his embrace. “I know your family and home can never be replaced, but if you’ll allow me,” he pulled her away to look into her eyes, “I can be your new family, your new home. We could make a life together after this war is over.”

Her face betrayed a new pang, a different kind of grief engulfing her. “I would like nothing more. But it’s not meant to be.”

Benjamin was about to reply, but voices were heard heading their direction.

“Oh, Miss Hazard—the stable lad told me he saw you wander over this way.” Major Bradford’s voice grew louder as he approached. “You had me your dance card, remember? But you disappeared, so I believe you owe me a turn or two.” He sounded intoxicated.

Rachel rolled her eyes. Benjamin motioned for them to abscond to a hollow tree trunk simply because neither of them felt like dealing with him. They squeezed inside, waiting for Major Bradford to leave.

“Oh, Miss Hazard—where might you be?”

Rachel was pressed snuggly against Benjamin’s chest. She looked up, and he was staring right back at her. Her hand was over his heart, and she could feel his heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with getting caught by Major Bradford. They silently stood there feeling each other breath, noticing that each was attempting to keep his and her breath steady. Benjamin angled her chin up slightly as he lowered his head, their warm breath baptizing each other’s lips.

“Well, well—what do we have here? Major Tallmadge with Mr. Sackett’s niece. Really, my dear, you should be more careful with your reputation. Some might think you a tease—or worse—a tart.” Major Bradford used one arm to prop himself against the hollow tree.

“That’s enough, Bradford,” Benjamin said sternly. Rachel and Benjamin stepped out of the trunk.

“You can’t give me orders. You don’t outrank me, even if you are Washington’s bitch. Besides, the girl needs to be aware of her prospects—of which, she has little. I’ve been studious; she’s an orphan of no name and no means. My attention should be rain down on her as holy light. I am her savior. Now give us a kiss, deary, and show your gratitude.” He lurched toward her, his full tankard pouring down the front of her dress.

Rachel pushed him off and prepared to knee the Major’s testicles through the roof of his mouth, but before he reached her, Benjamin grabbed him by open waistcoat and flung him backwards. He landed on his bottom, partially in the stream.

“You will apologize to Miss Harzard immediately then I will report you for ungentlemanly conduct,” Benjamin said, stepping in-between Rachel and Major Bradford.

Major Bradford looked like he was about to get red in the face before his temper suddenly subsided. “So be it. I’m a patient man. This rebellion has just about run its course. And after it does, I’ll collect the spoils of war, but I don’t want my spoils spoiled.” He grabbed his pistol from his belt and aimed it squarely at Benjamin’s chest.

As he pulled the trigger, Rachel rammed against Benjamin pushing him aside. The hammer clicked down, but the gun did not go off. The powder had gotten wet. Benjamin made a mad scramble toward Bradford, kicking the pistol out of his hand then taking him by the collar and punching him in the face repeatedly until Bradford was knocked out. Benjamin raised his fist again, but Rachel held his arm.  

“Let’s just leave him. He’ll get his comeuppance soon enough, and we don’t need paperwork recording this incident.”

Benjamin dragged him onto the bank, and they left him lying there.

They walked back to headquarters at a brisk pace. Once they were a safe distance away, Benjamin pulled Rachel’s elbow, slowing them to a stop and turning her around.

“Will you quit saving me? It’s not that I’m not grateful, but if anything befell you—”

“You have to survive this war, Major. I don’t.” Rachel turned to keep walking, but he pulled her back around.

“And what does that mean exactly?”

“You have decedents counting on you. I’ve even met some of them.”

“I’m not interested in a future that doesn’t have you in it. If we’re not fighting for a future we wish to inhabit then what are we fighting for?”

“Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—all that jazz.”

“Lofty sentiment, but its meaning is lost without you.”

“Benjamin, as much as I wish there was a future with you and I together, there isn’t. It’s already fixed—by fate or the stars or Providence, whatever you want to credit—you and I are not in the history books together.”

Rachel walked away quickly before the tears welled up in her eyes, blinding her trek back to headquarters.

*             *             *             *             *

Caleb puffed on a pipe outside. He watched the blue rings drifting in the breeze. Rachel materialized out of the dark and walked past him and into the headquarters without saying a thing. Benjamin followed shortly afterwards at a slower pace.

“Lover’s quarrel?” Caleb asked.

“You could say that,” Benjamin said, leaning on the hitching post with both hands, trying to collect his thoughts. “How can one argue with someone about the future when the future is something they studied in their history books?”

“Found your match for verbal fencing, eh?”

“You don’t have to look so smug about it.” Benjamin pushed Caleb’s boots off the stump they were resting and sat down. “I don’t care if the history records are otherwise, I can’t be with another while my thoughts are always on her.”

“I didn’t realize you were that far gone.”

“We’re fighting for freedom, yet she’s trapped in the past and believes the future to be locked into place.”

“Doesn’t seem much point in all this belly-aching without something to look forward to.” Caleb knocked the tobacco ash out of his pipe. “Why don’t ye let a friend do some reconnaissance for ye?”

“If you promise not to say anything. . .inflammatory.”

Caleb stood in thought for a minute. “Sorry, Benny boy. No guarantees.”  


	13. Chapter 13

Ben walked up to the kitchen door, which was slightly cracked. Caleb sat at the table and Rachel sat near the fire while her clothes dried. He was about to walk away when he stopped to listen to their conversation.

“I realize ye’re a learned lass, independent, and a bit unorthodox,” he said staring pointedly at the her Adversary outfit drying next to her dress on the rack. “But ye also obviously care for the Major, considering you doubled-back, saved our hides, and killed your only ticket back to your time,” Caleb said, softer than his usual chatter, attempting to sound less-abrasive.

Rachel said nothing but sniffed.

“And we and our posterity are all very grateful to ye, but my question is as a good friend of Ben’s, do ye have feelings for him? Truly?” Caleb asked, cocking his head to one side, one hand in his pocket, one hand cradling his mug.

Ben peered through the crack in the hall door, watching Rachel stare into the fire. He held his breath.

Rachel stood suddenly, eyes fixated on the flickering coals. “I don’t have _feelings_. It’s not some ambiguous marsh of emotions.” She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “I know exactly what I feel for him. Truly. Which is why I must leave soon.”

Caleb gave a snort. “I liked you better when you wore pants. You made more sense.” He took a deep drought and slammed the mug back down. “Why would ye be leaving if you feel so strongly for him and his heart aches for you? You don’t have to listen to his sighs at night when we’re bunked in our tents. The lad’s pining away for you. When he’s not plotting to overthrow the lobsters, he’s red as one, probably from impure thoughts about ye, meaning you’re aiding and abetting sinful fantasies.” He shook his finger at her.

Ben gritted his teeth and tightened his fists, mouthing, “I’m going to box your ears, Caleb.”

Rachel turned her eyes away from the warmth of the fire, looking at Caleb. “Because he marries a woman named Mary Floyd in a few years’ time.”

Caleb’s mouth hung open. “And I don’t particularly want to be around for it.” Rachel squeezed her stockings hanging by the fire, checking to see if they were dry yet. “I will be happy for Benjamin…even while my heart is breaking. But it’s best for all if I disappear. Fade into the background somewhere where I can be the least noticeable.”

Caleb glanced at the door to the hallway. “How do you—“

“Many of their letters were kept and passed down in their family. Their children’s children’s children etcetera eventually donated them to the university where I was studying. They were archived and, “she turned to towards the fire again, “are testaments of a lucid, fervent passion. They adored—they will adore—each other.”

Caleb finally closed his mouth, but then opened it again about to say something but nothing came out.

Rachel continued, trying to avoid an awkward silence. “The letters were actually delivered to me personally by the Major’s future progeny. It was so strange because they seemed to be holding something back when they gave them to me. Perhaps it was just wistful reluctance to let go of something so personal and so precious.”

Caleb poured another round, offering the bottle to Rachel, who took a respectful swig from it.

“And my name is Rachel, not Mary. She’s a fortunate woman.” Under her breath she added, “The ridiculously lucky cow.” Her eyes glossed over in tears, reflecting the coals like a lake beneath a forest fire. “I’m not supposed to be here, remember,” she stated more than asked. She pulled her stockings off the rack and began walking out of the room. “And I’m not going to be a preemptive homewrecker.”

Ben, with his agile emissary skills, slipped down the hall into a dark room. Rachel walked out of the kitchen and went to her room. He moved from the shadow into the lighted hallway at the sound of her door closing.

He gripped the side of the kitchen doorframe, stopping himself from following her, from coming up behind her, turning her around, pressing her body to his with only a thin sheet separating them. He lurched forward, deciding that forbearance was for fools in time of war, but Caleb stepped out from the kitchen.

“Ye heard all that, did ye?”

“Aye.”

“Do ye know a Mary Floyd?”

He nodded. “Yes, Mary Floyd is William’s daughter. But she was visiting a cousin in the New York at the beginning of the rebellion and died in the Great Fire, and even if she was alive, I don’t harbor any warm feelings towards her.”

“Rotten luck. You’re a widower without even being bedded.”

Ben looked back towards Rachel’s room, longingly. “There’s only one woman to whom I want bind myself.”

Caleb smiled and slapped him on the arm. “To hell with ‘it is written’ nonsense. You’re here now and she’s here now—go tell her to tie a belt around that sheet and take her to the chapel. Be one, be happy, and bugger the details.”

A grin widened across Ben’s face as he turned on his heels and marched down the hall, when the front door bursts open. A disheveled, sweaty messenger entered, taking off his hat.

“Major Tallmadge, sir? General Washington needs a word with you. It’s urgent.”

*             *             *             *             *

Rachel lay in bed and by candlelight traced the words to Ben and Mary’s correspondence with her finger. The letter hadn’t changed—every curly swirl and dot of the calligraphy and every word were the same as before. This knowledge brought comfort and despair. She hadn’t ruined history or Ben’s life, but she was also not in his future. He still wrote it to Mary.


	14. Chapter 14

                Ben entered the General’s tent, not sure what the exigency for this summoning was. The General and Mr. Sackett’s backs were to him. They were whispering until Mr. Sackett saw that Ben was present.

                Mr. Sackett cleared his throat, and General Washington turned, motioning for Ben to approach.

                “Major André has been successfully captured,” Mr. Sackett said with a smile.

The General sat behind his desk. “Mr. Sackett has just been entertaining me with the most extraordinary story.”

                Ben looked to Sackett who shrugged his shoulders. “There were no lies that could be fabricated to plausibly explain how we knew what we knew. It was easiest to tell the truth. Not that I would lie to you, sir,” he said to Washington who gave him a wary look.

               “Far-fetched as time-traveling agents from the future sound, I also believe that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy,” Washington said as he crossed his fingers, resting his elbows on the map on his desk. “However, these mysteries and wonders must remain in this tent, and no further.”

                Ben and Mr. Sackett nodded in agreement.

                “The Adversary, or Rachel is it?”

                Mr. Sackett nodded.

                “Rachel is going to need a new identity if she is to acclimate to this time and place. I imagine she will also need a ring of true friends who can support her.”

                “She would make a wonderful Mrs. Bolton,” Mr. Sackett said while staring at a random corner of the tent. He glanced back at Ben and the General who were eyeing him.

                “Mr. Sackett, I didn’t take you for a romantic,” Washington said and Mr. Sackett lightly blushed.

                Ben stared down at the map of the area beneath Washington’s elbows. It was a topography of his relationship with Rachel—where they first met, where she saved him, where they were at this very moment—but where would they end up in the near future? The two figurines marking the map could be moved anywhere, together or apart.

                “Major? Major?”

                Ben looked up at Washington. “Sorry, sir, I was lost in thought.”

                “Indeed. Much thought needs to be given to Miss Rachel’s future. As I was saying, since you and the Culper Ring know her best, will you see to it that she is taken care of, not just for the remainder of the war, but after the war?”

                Ben’s eyes betrayed a storm going on inside him, wracking his thoughts. “Of course I will care for her.”

                “Excellent. Good man. I’ll send for her shortly to fix any official papers that need to be signed and sealed. You’re dismissed.”

                Ben left the tent, his cape flowing behind him. He looked towards the spy headquarters where Rachel was most likely sleeping, wrapped up in her sheet. He could see its roof and smoking chimney above the trees. He wished he were lying beside her in the sheet, watching her chest rise and fall. But he had a mission.

                William Floyd was a member of the Suffolk County Militia and in the neighboring town only a few miles out for an important meeting. Ben had a few questions he wanted to ask him personally.

*             *             *             *             *

                Rachel had put on a fresh pair of pants and shirt along with stockings, a trench coat, and a hat to shield her face. She trudged through the woods to the camp with Mr. Sackett by her side, explaining that the General wanted to speak with her and there was no time to hunt down a dress that didn’t have a beer stain down the front of it.

                “I’m working on requiring proper attire for you. Meanwhile, stay inconspicuous.”

                “Understood,” Rachel said, not nearly as concerned about acquiring a dress as Mr. Sackett was.

She entered the tent. Mr. Sackett scampered to General Washington’s side. The General motioned for Rachel to come forward. She approached his desk as he sat behind it rustling some papers.

                “Mr. Sackett has been telling me remarkable tales about you as of late.”

                Rachel glanced at Mr. Sackett who shrugged and sheepishly grinned.

                “I understand that this country owes you a great debt. You’ve given up your previous residence, so to speak—your family, friends, and life in much more affluent time. The least I can do is make your transition less berating. First, papers are in order so that you may begin your new life here.” General Washington’s hand posed over the document. “And what name would you like me to pen, my dear?”

                Mr. Sackett leaned forward. “I suggest choosing a female namesake, but not your own. It may raise questions in historical documents during your time—just in case other rogue time-traveling agents are sent back to off you. Purely precautionary, my dear.”

                “Of course,” Rachel nodded, gazing down at the document that would create her identity in these new United States of America.

                “Mary. Her alias is Mary,” a voice said from behind Rachel.

                Rachel turned. Ben stood at the tent’s entrance, eyes intently locked onto hers.

                “And a last name?” General Washington asked.

                “Floyd for now,” Ben answered without taking his eyes off of Rachel. “William will claim her as his ward, in honor of his daughter’s memory.”

                “Very good. Floyd—“ the General observed Ben and Rachel. “For now?”

                Ben walked up to Rachel, never breaking eye contact. He stopped, close enough for her to feel his panting breath on her forehead. “Tallmadge soon?” he whispered.

                Her eyes widened, the muscles in her forehead and jaw, usually tense relaxed. She nodded, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth that couldn’t be stifled. Her breath quickened in her chest, like she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “Tallmadge today?”

                Ignoring the General and Mr. Sackett, Ben took Rachel’s face in both his hands and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “Mary. Mary Tallmadge.”

                General Washington rose. “In these precarious times, it is best not to delay when love is concerned. Mr. Sackett, would you be so kind as to go fetch a few witnesses so that these two can be wedded in the eyes of their friends and God?” Mr. Sackett gave the General a questioning look. “God above,” Washington pointed overhead, “I’ll be the officiator.”

                Mr. Sackett bowed out, and the General took a Bible off of his shelf began flipping through it, looking for a particular passage. “I will go hunt down a suitable substitute for a ring. Excuse me a moment.” He exited, turning sideways to fit his broad shoulders through the tent flaps.

                Rachel timidly placed her palms on Ben’s chest, tracing the buttons with her fingertips. He gently tilted her head up, his finger under her chin. His thumb stroked her lips, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the warm friction from his calloused thumbs. She wanted so dearly to remain here and now forever. But she forced herself to open her eyes.

                She looked into the bluish grey windows of his immaculate soul. “What if we’re circumventing the woman you’re really intended to be with by inventing me? I’ve met your decedents, and they’re counting on you and the real Mary—“

                A smile broke out across his face, and his hands slipped down to her waist and pulled her closer. “We have children?”

                “You’re distracting me. But yes, I mean, no— _you and Mary_ have seven children and have a wonderful life together, and as much as I wish that she was me, I don’t want to steal that from you.”

                He didn’t answer Rachel with words. He angled his head, leaning over and dipping down to secure her gaze. Then he opened his mouth and ever so lightly placed it over hers. She opened her mouth in response. They brazed each other lips, breathed each other’s breath before coming together in long caresses, grasping and sighing only stopping to take in gulps of air.

                Rachel pulled away for a moment, nearly intoxicated.

                “Don’t you see? It’s you. It’s always been you. The time continuum you always talk about wrote you in long before you even realized—it was you all along. You and I are destined in more ways than perhaps most ever are.” Ben took her face again, searching her eyes.

                Mary placed her hands over his, memorizing the curve of his knuckles and wrists, the warmth from his palms against her cheeks. “Alright then. I’m Mary now.”

                “You’ll always be Rachel, my lamb. But for the records, Mary Tallmadge will do.”

                They kissed again, firmly, releasing just before the General, Mr. Sackett, and Caleb entered.

                “The dearly beloved are gathered,” Caleb said with a grin.  


	15. Chapter 15

              Candlelight illuminated the tent. Campfire revelry babbled outside. A penny whistle and fiddle played a tune somewhere in the distance. A gentle zephyr caused the canvas to billow, like a rollicking cloud of mist.

              The vows were traditional, spoken with hushed, fervent tones. Caleb wiped a stray tear, Mr. Sackett’s spectacles sparkled as he nodded merrily as Ben and Rachel repeated the promises to each other. General Washington did not rush the verses, allowing Ben and Rachel to appreciate each word as they grasped each other’s hands.

                Washington presented them with two strips of leather from a courier satchel that had been stitched into rings. “You may kiss the bride,” Washington said as he closed the weathered Bible.

                Ben looked into Rachel’s eyes. “May I?” he asked.

Rachel nodded, “You may, Major.”

Ben immediately swept down, his arms encircling her waist and her arms wrapping around his neck. They kissed long and without reserve.

                Their small audience cheered. Caleb shouted, “Ben’s getting—“ Sackeet swiftly clamped his hand over his mouth, and Caleb winked, remembering to be quiet. Sacket released him. “Ben’s getting bedded tonight!” Caleb whispered, dancing in place.

“I think ye be more excited than he is,” Sackett said.

           Ben actually had a small blush form on his cheeks, making Rachel laugh. She buried her head into his chest as she chuckled, and he squeezed her in an embrace, resting his head on top of hers.

                Ben whispered in her ear so only she could hear him. “When the war is over, we’ll have a formal ceremony with my father presiding, with whatever arrangements you desire.”

                Rachel turned her face up, kissing his lips. “All I desire is you.”

***             *             *             *             ***

                Washington fished out a bottle of ale, and Caleb poured everyone a drought. Ben and Rachel stayed for the first few toasts.

                “To Ben and Rachel—I mean Mary—and there many impending children!” Caleb said, glass raised. “And may they make one tonight!”

                “Huzzah!” All clinked their mugs and drank.

                Ben and Rachel smiled at everyone, sipping the sour ale. But in-between the revelry there were moments when everything melted into a fuzzy background and it was only them staring at each other, only the warmth from their bodies that Ben felt radiating between them, a gravity Rachel could feel tugging at her laces of her shirt.

                After the sixth or seventh toasts, Ben took Rachel by the hand and led her out a back flap of the tent. They ran through the woods to the small town’s bath house, the only place where Ben knew a sturdy lock was on the door and a person who they could bribe to bar entry. Ben gave the bath house maid a few coins. She gave them a terse look, but curtsied and tied a scarf on the door handle indicating that the bath house was closed. Mary and Ben stepped inside, shutting the door and sliding the lock into place.

                Steam rose from several tubs, causing the humid air to embrace them like a warm blanket. Rachel took off her hat and coat and breathed in the balminess, feeling like her bones thawed for the first time in months. Hair tendrils curled and stuck to the base of her neck.

                “I haven’t felt this warm since summer.” She turned to face Ben.

Ben took her hand, fondling the leather ring. He lifted her palm to his lips, kissing the nape of her wrist.

                “I haven’t felt this comfortable being this vulnerable ever,” Ben said.

                They paused, breathing the steamy air, searching each other’s faces. Their hearts beating like a horse working up to a full gallop. Both of their chests heaved. Rachel reached up and undid her hair, letting her curls fall to her shoulder. That motion undid Ben, too.

                He softly but decisively met her open lips. They walked backwards, pulling at each other’s belts, untucking shirts, shucking hidden knives and gut pistols. She pulled his off tunic over his head and he undid the laces of hers, pulled it off, and tossed it in the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

                She had her breasts firmly bound by a long wrap. He bent over and unsheathed her boot knife lying next to the pile of clothes, gently pushing her back on a bench. She laid back and he knelt between her legs, inserting the knife at the bottom of the wrap, just above her navel. Carefully, he cut upwards, his other hand on her side, following the wrap up as it tore away. She arched her back as her rib cage was released, and Ben’s rough but tender hand crept further up.

                The knife sliced through the last few strands, and the cloth fell away. Ben’s free hand caressed her left breast, and Rachel drew him closer to her. She wanted to feel his warm weight on top of her. He dropped the knife to the floor and leaned on his elbow above her, the kisses growing longer, more desperate.

                She finished unbuttoning his pants in a furry, and he pulled hers off and pulled her up on to him. She burrowed her face in his neck and muffled a scream.

                “Are you alright?” he asked.

                She nodded then kissed him. He straddled the bench, and she had legs wrapped around him. She felt his leg muscles tense as he thrust upwards, again and again, each time going deeper. There was no space between them. Their bodies were completely matted together, arms entwined around each other’s backs, slippery from sweat. Their pelvises took on a synchronistic movement, as they found their way in the dark, guiding each other through moans and sighs.

                The thrusts become more forceful, and Rachel knew she was must be nearing climax, but she didn’t think she could stifle a scream.

                “Ben,” she said in his ear. “Stop, I’m going to cry out.”  

                “This is one night we don’t have to whisper,” he said.

                He laid her on back and gripped the top of the bench. She held on to his wrists and spread her thighs as far as they could part so he could enter her completely. The last few thrusts jolted her breast, causing the soft lumps of flesh to quiver. She felt a gradual eruption build from deep inside her then consume her body with waves of bliss that exploded outward and reverberated up and down her spine. She cried out inaudible sounds at first then could only repeat his name over and over again. Ben felt her body contract and release. He joined her cries as he came, bracing as he poured into her.

                He drew her up into his arms, and they spent the next minutes, catching their breath and relishing the lingering echoes of their lovemaking. “Was that more thrilling than spying?”

                “I think I’ll retire and do this full time,” Ben said still slightly out of breath.

                 Rachel took his face in her hands and kissed him before standing. As he pulled out, she already missed the feeling of him inside her. It left an absence, a cavity. Ben’s member felt cold, suddenly torn from Rachel’s tepid flesh.

                 Ben stoked the stove and took the kettle from the top and poured it in one of the tubs. He slipped into the warm water and held Rachel’s hand as she stepped in, too. She leaned up against him, and they both closed their eyes, just feeling the steam and each other’s flesh.

                “How many years until the war is over?” Ben asked while curling and uncurling a strand of Rachel’s hair around his finger.

                “Three.”

                 “And when do we officially get married?”

                Rachel laughed. “In 1784. So we can have our honeymoon all over again.” She turned her head, and he bent his down to meet her lips. “But I don’t know many more details, just the basics.”

                “That’s alright, I know.”

                 “You do now? I don’t like surprises, so please share.”

                 He held up his fingers, counting, “Life—our life together starting now. Liberty—which we’ll also secure together, in three years’ time according to you. And the pursuit.”

                 “Of happiness?”

                 “Of whatever is your heart’s yearns for. We’ll figure out the particulars along the way.”

                Rachel thought for a moment. “My heart yearns to beat alongside yours, and to stop when yours ceases.”    

                Dawn was breaking outside, a few rays peeked underneath the doorway.

                The bath maid rapped on the door. “What’s going on in there?”

                “Official spy business. Confidential. If you have any questions, see General Washington,” Ben called out.

Mary snorted, laughing. “Mr. Bolton and the Devil are getting better acquainted.”

 

 

**Epilogue**

**_June----_ **

**Mary, my lamb,**

**Even though the war has been over for several years now, I still vividly recall our many adventures then—the ones that invigorate and the ones that haunt. My fondest memories are those that forged us together, intertwining our destinies and making use inseparable. We fought beside each other, fought for each other.**

**We have embarked on new adventures now. You remain the light guiding me and although our futures are not completely known, we can always cling to hope and each other. I see that hope every time I look into our son’s eyes. And I am renewed every morning whenever I wake up and look into yours.**

**I will be home soon as I finish business here. Until then, know that I ache for you.**

**Yours always,**

**Ben**

**June-----**

**Ben, my dearest husband,**

**I often think about our wartime escapades, too—the perils, the losses, the triumphs—the excursions we have yet to have. Time is a precarious thing and there is nothing like the present one we live in. It’s difficult to trust anyone, especially when so many agendas are at play at the beginning of a new nation, which is only one more (of the many) reasons why you are so dear to me. I know I can trust you in everything, as you always will be able to do with me.**

**As soon as able, come back to me post haste. I long to sleep in your arms again. Your touch brings out the devil in me—in the best ways possible.**

**Affectionately,**

**Your lamb**


End file.
